


Dissociation (make it red)

by closet_monster



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types
Genre: Batfamily, Blood, F/M, I know it, Jason Todd Feels, Jason Todd is Alive, Jason Todd is Red Hood, Jason Todd is a good brother, Protective Jason Todd, Romance, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, The summary sucks, Vigilantism, i mean it does, might contain violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2020-02-21
Packaged: 2020-07-20 13:16:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 83,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19992835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/closet_monster/pseuds/closet_monster
Summary: Rooftops in Gotham are known to be busy, as walls are known to be awfully thin. With that being said, Red Hood is a little rough, but Jason Todd has a soft spot for girls who, just like him, seem to be a little lost.





	1. Catatonic

**Author's Note:**

> Oh hi! I never wrote anything DC related, so there's that. Regardless, I'll try to do my best because the lack of Jason Todd/Reader fanfiction is driving me mad and maybe it will make me feel better if I help raise the numbers.  
> Also.  
> Also I would LOVE some feedback because writing in the dark is just as maddening.  
> That's about it, hope it's not that bad, besides being short. Not sure how long it will be, depends on the response it gets, I guess.  
> Anyway, go read and have fun!

Rooftops in Gotham are known to be busy.

Any sane citizen knows that they are precisely the place vigilantes and their crazy-ass antagonists hang out around. Not only because people often see weirdly clothed folks jumping about and dramatically staring down at the city from the balconies – it’s also because it’s not uncommon to find blood pools and their useless, used paraphernalia on the ground. Some enthusiastic fans might call it “gear”, but the rest of us call it what it is: trash. Trash and gore that someone has to clean in the morning, but not that any of them really cares about it.

Obviously, you’ll hardly ever hear of things like this being found around the nicer areas of the city, or close to the cool mansions people like me definitely don’t live around. And I’m not even that bad, but while I don’t happen to live in one of the most dangerous places of the city, I don’t live in a nice neighborhood either. I’m definitely fully aware of my surroundings and the dangers of Gotham, so I should know better, and as a matter of a fact, I actually do. But as this has been said, today hasn’t been a nice day and my usual, better judgment had been harmed by it’s events.

Being a particularly young history teacher working on the Gotham Academy, I make only enough money to sustain a decent life and pay for the rest of my student debt. I still have some months to go, but maybe then, I’ll be able to spare enough money to move somewhere better. And you see, my initial plan was somewhat different than this – and this is more or less where I start to explain why this has been such a bad day.

I had been engaged for an entire year. To Austin, the boyfriend I met in college, when I was merely twenty years old. Austin who, different than me, came from a rich family, studied mechanical engineering and then got a job at Wayne Enterprises the second he graduated. Despite the differences, the two of us used to get along pretty well and he proposed to me three years into our relationship. We made it four, with plans to get married next year and then move in somewhere nice, together. While my money wasn’t enough, his definitely was – for the past 6 months or so, I had my whole future planned out; my phone filled with plenty of ideas to our wedding and our future home.

However, a blackout in the city helped me change that, whether I liked it or not. As the internet claimed, the accident was caused because of a conflict in between the Batman and that one lunatic that has something to do with penguins. While the police insisted that it was yet to be confirmed, there were plenty of videos on twitter that showed the two figures clearly enough.

The power ran out just before lunch, and seeing that it wouldn’t come back any time soon, the principal decided to end the activities of the day and send everybody home, students and employees. So I got my bag and went back to my fiance’s apartment – I had been sleeping there for the past week, which is something we do every now and then.

Traffic was as bad as it could be, considering the poor city had started to deal with all of it’s absurd affairs so early in the morning – the insanity around here usually spikes during the night. But I eventually made it home, despite everything happening in the streets. So I got inside the apartment and took my shoes off just in time to hear the first moans echoing from the bedroom. Those were sounds that were definitely not mine, and sounds that were definitely being made by more than a person.

Now that – that was hard to accept. Easy to believe, but hard to accept. So I walked ahead, despite tight, crippling anxiety bubbling up on my chest and opened the door just to make sure that I’d see what I thought I’d see – I did.

I was, in fact, being cheated on by my soon-to-be husband.

Staying, screaming and making a scene doesn’t work with my usual behavior, so I just threw the door open and marched out again, now much more upset than what I was before entering the apartment. I was never raised to aspire marriage: my mother urged me to go to school and get a job. From personal experience, she didn’t want me to rely on a man and I never really did, not even allowing myself to cry over teenage boyfriends and dumb crushes. However, it is very inconvenient to suddenly have to let go of almost every single plan I had made to my future, or to accept the reason as to why I had to give it all up.

Now back to Gotham and it’s creepy rooftops – I, of all people, know for a fact that we’re supposed to stay off them. In Gotham City, some shady things happen at night and I don’t mess with things like that; I don’t even have the connections and the money to deal with the aftermath of what might happen if I get in the way of whatever happens up there.

But as rooftops are known to be busy, walls in Gotham are known to be awfully thin.

So when I came back to my home and threw myself in bed to cry in a depressing fashion, I also happened to hear my neighbors deafening fight and suddenly became hyper aware of the ugly sound my sobs turned out to emit. I don’t really like my neighbors and I don’t want to be heard crying, especially not like that. Therefore, I bit the tears back, got up, made spaghetti for dinner and told myself that I’d go back to my ugly crying later. Later, however, my neighbors decided to made up for their fight with sex, screaming and banging at the walls like animals. Now that was a bit too much for me, considering all of the things I had seen already during the day.

Before I could even register my own thoughts, I was already climbing my way up the stairs to get to the rooftop and cry in the peace and quiet. Where _supposedly_ , I’d be actually alone and no one would be able to hear my ugly sobs.

That’s where things get tricky for me.

The beginning was pretty smooth: the city seemed so quiet that I almost patted myself in the back for choosing the right time to come up there. So I sat close to the balcony, got comfortable, went back to thinking about my (now) ex and eventually the tears found their way back to my face.

In my left hand, the engagement ring I’ve been wearing for the past year suddenly felt too heavy and burning hot. White gold decorated by an actual diamond on the center of it, this reality has always seemed a bit too far from what life usually goes like to me, anyway. White gold and diamonds is nothing like what my mother had, and neither was a perfect relationship with a seemingly perfect man – because apparently, such thing doesn’t exist for anybody. I know that, now. So that’s four years of lost time with someone who I thought I knew and a broken-down possible future; it all makes me feel as sick as it sounds like, hopeless, too. And at that point, I thought that this was the worst I’ve ever been in my entire life – that it was the worst thing I’ve ever been through and that it couldn’t get any worse.

 _Now_. Now, I should have known better. I should know that things will always, in fact, get much, much worse.

Perhaps a bit distracted by my own sobbing and very negative thoughts, I didn’t notice the fast figures approaching my building in the almost pitch black skyline.

_–Do you think she’s alright?_

The sudden sound made me jump and scream the second I heard it. Looking around frenetically, I found the source quickly: two men stood on the opposite side of the balcony, assessing me like an animal. And as we all looked at each other, my brain started to function properly and associated the colors and shapes I was seeing: red, black, yellow and green; bats, jackets, capes, masks, _actual_ pistols and a – a sword?

I have seen blurred images on the news; I’ve heard of it before, amidst the frantic rambling from my students, for long enough to assimilate who were those in front of me.

Robin and Red Hood.

Some of the names that never fail to make it to the news, constantly related to the Batman, to Nightwing and to many other lunatics that hide around this god forsaken city. Saviors and killers: a bloody line that often gets blurred around here. Unknown people that appear to have the power or ability to do things that the rest of us can’t, and judging by the image my eyes are showing me, I can easily picture these two men in the scenarios they’re often described to be part of. It’s both trilling and terrifying. _Blurred lines._

That’s my point: until then, it was _great_ – when my problems were solely based on being heartbroken over a douche, rather than being afraid for my life as a wanted criminal stood right ahead of me with pistols in hands. And screaming wasn’t going to take me anywhere, I know. As I’ve said before, the rooftops around here are known to be a little busy, which is something _everybody_ else knows as well. Absolutely no one is going to come upstairs after hearing me scream; quite the opposite, if I’m honest to myself. I’m alone up here, I know that, and maybe it makes it easier to deal with it.

And – wait a fucking minute. Robin and Red Hood? Isn’t Robin one of the good guys?

–Ma’am? –Robin called out, jumping off the balcony and into the ground.

 _Ma’am_? What the fuck?

–She’s fine. –Red Hood chimed in, crossing his arms and tilting his head in my direction, with as much movement as his red helmet allowed. He sounded bored, but the shine from the city lights reflecting on his red helmet and guns didn’t fail to send chills down my spine.

–She didn’t sound fine. –The seemingly younger man insisted, still inspecting me from distance and scratching his head. –I mean, doesn’t she look catatonic?

–Aw, shut up, you dumbass. –Red Hood jumped off the balcony too, reaching for the smaller boy and smacking the back of his head. Then he turned back to me, which immediately made my blood run cold again. Made my heart beat much faster then what it ever has, and that’s considering that one time I had sex at my parents house while they were both at it. Red Hood is known to be a merciless killer with a wicked moral compass; there aren’t many people out there saying nice things about him. –That’s an expensive ring he got you.

Oh. Looking down to my own hands, I see that I have been holding the engagement ring in between my thumb and my index finger like it was radioactive. I probably took it out in the middle of my dramatic moment – being cheated on is a new low, if anyone asks me.

–I guess it is. –Leaves my mouth very low, but I believe they heard it anyway. _Who knows?_ And it _is_ an expensive ring. He got me that ring; why?

–Stop crying and go back inside. –The vigilante commands and points to the door with the gun still in hands; to where I believe I’m supposed to disappear through. And while his tone and command weren’t necessarily surprising, the commentary on my obvious romantic trouble definitely was. My shock was probably evident, because Redhood got back to talking again, but much less harsh and if I say so, in a somewhat friendly tone. –He’s probably not worth it. How angry are you?

–Why is that? –I manage to choke out, still surprised that I’m being talked to by them. I know people who happened to encounter vigilantes so many times that they were perfectly bored to come across them again, but I guess I’m part of the demographic that hardly ever came close to wherever they popped out of. I’m so used to hearing about these people that seeing the real thing right in front of me feels unreal.

–You could make some cash off it. –The man answers, in what I believe to be a playful tone; I can hardly tell anything with that helmet covering his face. Robin, on the other side, while still standing awkwardly on the same spot, had a smirk plastered on his face (and it immediately made me think of how familiar that smirk was, along with the unruly black hair and body built). Then, Red Hood raised his arm and used the gun to point to the door again.

 _Go_.

I certainly will.

–It’s what he deserves. –I raise the ring and nod at them. I don’t know why; probably in appreciation. I still can feel my heart slamming against my chest like it’s about to burst, but this has, nevertheless, been a lucky encounter. I could have met with much, much worse, up here. Either way, the city has been hectic today, it’s not at all surprising that the vigilante activity would be running high. I should have thought of that, but my mind was definitely elsewhere.

Completely numb and unable to feel my feet as they hit against the ground, I go for the door to get the fuck out of this rooftop.

Feeling their eyes on me, I don’t look back for a second – I know better.


	2. Visitante

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! Ok, first of, I know that this is heavy Damian content, but damn I love my problematic batboys and then I was writing all of those pages and didn't know how to stop.  
> Also. I think I'll use this moment to say that in the rhythm I've settled into, this is going to be a slow burn, but I have no idea of how many chapters it will turn into. Let's see.  
> ALSO. I start college next week! (once again). I'm a little excited, I guess. It will definitely get in the way of the frequency I write and post, so there's that.  
> Promise that I'll try to keep up!  
> Anyway,,,,, go ahead and I hope that you like it!

Weird things have happened in the past couple days. In between cheating fiancés, unnerving encounters with vigilantes, uncomfortable calls to explain my break up to my mom and a couple of friends and grading terrible essays about the slavery in Brazil, I had no idea about what was yet to come.

Like for example, being approached by our local troublemaker, Damian Wayne.

Youngest son of Bruce Wayne and heir to a billionaire empire, like every other fifteen year old boy, Damian is absolutely chaotic. In stories shared by other teachers and even the principal, I’ve heard that he was even worse years back: got into fights every single day, talked back to teachers and was completely irresponsive in class. Damian was so hellish that he lowered the staff’s expectations to the point of being glad to simply be able to go through classes without physical violence.

With psychological aid, many fights, years, detentions and conferences later, Damian settled in what seems to be usual, entitled fifteen year old boy behavior. Clara Sorrento, our art teacher, claims that beyond being incredibly talented, Damian is also her favorite student – Lucia Galahan, the chemestry teacher, says that he is completely helpless and can barely operate equations right (but I didn’t chime in on this part of the conversation, because I can’t either).

Everyone seems to have a different experience, but so have I. I haven’t been here for longer than one year and a half, but Damian has been respectful to me, despite the horror stories that I’ve heard before from other colleagues. He always sits on the corner and doesn’t really talk to anyone; I have never seen him with any friends. Some days, I can tell that he is interested on the subject, taking notes and paying attention, but on the counterpart, some days he appears to just sit there, zoning out as the time goes by. His grades are never great, but always enough to not fail.

In the only two times I tried to talk to Damian about his response in class, he just looked at me like it couldn’t matter less and then I learned that it was pointless to insist – he didn’t cause trouble, never interrupted class, never failed anything; I should just be thankful that he wasn’t as bad to me as he was to the math and the chemistry teacher.

Actually, for some of my colleagues it is surprising that Damian isn’t the one who causes the most trouble in my classroom, but I definitely have students who can’t shut up for solid five minutes or score anything higher than a D.

Regardless of what, Damian and I have an understandment that we’re both better off staying off each other’s lane. He allows me go through my classes without trouble and I don’t pester him about sulking in like a cactus on the back of the room with only ok grades.

Either way, I don’t even have it in me to care about Damian Wayne’s golden-fish-like attention span on class, as I’m fully aware that all everyone around me talks about is the lack of presence of the shiny engagement ring that I’ve worn for over a year now. Most teachers just glanced at my fingers very quickly and afterwards pretended to be looking at something else, while some students were as indelicate as pointing at my hands while staring from what they believed to be a discrete, safe distance.

And for that matter, I barely knew what was happening with me, in case anyone ever had the courage to come up and actually ask. Contrary to the internal voice screeching on my head, I did not sell the ring. It was tucked on the back of my nightstand’s top drawer. I’ve received hundreds of calls from Austin since that day, but never really picked it up. There were messages too and I did answer those – just to clarify that we were over and I didn’t want to see him ever again. His immediate response was to come over and knock on my door incessantly, despite being told to go away and get fucked. He actually sat there for a full hour, pestering me to open the door and talk to him, but I just went back to my bedroom with my earphones on.

The next time I opened the door for work, he was gone again. There were no messages or calls, since his number had been righteously blocked.

A relationship of four years that transformed itself into a meaningless mistake, all on the time span of thirty minutes.

A little sick from the weird looks that I’ve been getting from everyone, I settled for grading papers on the classroom rather than going back to the teacher common room. Being alone there was a lot more peaceful and comfortable, anyways. So peaceful that despite the time passing by my actual working hours, I didn’t move from where I was staying – maybe five more essays and I’d let myself pack everything to go back home.

Until, of course, someone knocked on the door, followed by a black haired head that slipped in to look at me. _Damian Wayne_.

His visit was so unusual that my immediate thought was that he had forgotten something earlier during class and came back to pick it up, but after a couple of seconds, I remembered that he hasn’t been in any of my lessons today.

–Excuse me. –He said nervously, bringing a hand up to wave at me. –Can we talk for a second?

–Of course. –I smiled at him and pointed to the chair closest to my table, feeling suddenly excited about being approached by him. –What do you want to talk about?

Besides being irresponsive and causing trouble every now and then, I can tell that Damian is a good kid. In reality, most of these somewhat problematic kids I’ve met so far have something in common: rich parents who they don’t get full attention and support from, allied with the natural entitlement that comes with their age. Being approached by one of these kids, while sometimes unnerving, is also a nice experience. For them to reach out for me, for whatever reason, even if it is to beg for extra assignments, show that they care and are willing to seek help. I am a teacher, after all; I did study pedagogy.

–I… Well. –The boy started out before even sitting down, grasping his hands nervously and looking down. –I didn’t do well on the exam we did last Wednesday.

–Right. I remember that. –I nod encouragingly, putting down my pen and stack of bad essays to pull the paper with the scheme of grades that I usually keep on the binder. He got a D-. _Oof_. –Do you want to testify for yourself?

Surprisingly, the joke made him laugh a little. While still a little stiff, Damian got slightly more comfortable on the chair.

–I’m not that bad in history, I was just a little distracted. But the thing… –He breathed in deep, clearly anxious about either the subject or having that conversation with me. –I always turn up everything I’m supposed to turn up: the essays, the activities, the seminaries and everything else. So regardless of what I score on the exams, I always have enough to be approved. Right?

Yes, I know that. It’s what the smartest students do – doing all of your assignments right is a way to prevent yourself of being screwed over a sudden bad grade in a particularly bad exam. It’s something I’ve noticed that he does, as well.

–Yes, sure. –I nod again and put the paper back in the binder, having his grades memorized already. –And?

–I just realized that I didn’t turn up the essay about the brazilian slavery, and it was worth 30% of my final grade. And with what I got on the test, the result is going to be really, really low. –He gesticulated while talking, growing more and more exasperated. _Right_. While I don’t see myself as a nightmare of a teacher, I’m aware that I can be very strict with due time and terrible work.

–Ok. First of all: you can calm down. –I instruct, pushing the binder and the papers to the side, hoping that it will make him less anxious. –Tell me: why didn’t you turn up the essay?

The question seemed to take the boy by surprise. His thick, dark eyebrows raised as he stared at me, open mouthed, probably trying to figure out an answer. During the brief break, I was capable of taking in his face – young, but tired. There were dark circles under his blue eyes, which always seemed to be trained on something; and regardless of keeping an impeccable posture, Damian sat as if an invisible force held him in place. Staring at each other, the silence only lasted so long, as he eventually sighed and shook his shoulders in defeat.

–I think I don’t have an excuse. –Damian admitted, looking disappointed on himself; which is a feat I rarely see in the teenagers I teach. –I’ve been really distracted lately. I can’t pay attention on anything and I’m doing a really bad job at everything. I don’t know why.

You see, teachers are very much used to dealing with all of the absurd lies that come from desperate students who need to score some extra credit. I’ve heard of so many deceased grandparents, younger siblings who needed sudden babysitting and unusual diseases, that hearing a true, honest explanation for once was little shocking.

–You’re in trouble in anything else? –I push the subject a little, leaning on the table.

–Math. Biology, advanced geopolitics… My art assignments sucked. We didn’t get the result of those yet, but I know it’s going to be bad and I’m not sure if the assignments that I’ve done will be enough to cover for them. –He shrugs again, going back to fidgeting with his own hands. –I’m going to take the literature test tomorrow, but I think I got it covered.

–What about chemistry? –I insist, remembering that Miss Galahan talks about Damian as if the boy is her personal archenemy.

The mention brings a little light back to his face.

–I got a C+. I know it’s not good, but I didn’t fail either. –Seemingly proud or his feat, Damian smirked at me, confident. His reaction made something snap inside of me; first, I thought it was shock, but then I reasoned that it was my mind trying to assimilate it to something. As if I had seen that before, somewhere, but couldn’t quite place it. –I know she wanted to.

–She did. –I smiled back, and then he was the one who looked surprised. I waved and proceeded. –Anyway. On those subjects you’re in trouble, do you still have something else to turn in?

–No. And they were all very… Inflexible. Which is understandable! –He continued quickly. –I was the one who screw up, not them. So that’s ok. But I know for sure that history is going to be really low and I can’t have that. So I came here to know if there’s something I can do, like an extra assignment, to fix my grade.

–Hm. –I nodded at first, pretending to still think about it. Then, an actual idea crossed my mind and it almost made me smile; which I didn’t do, to ensure dramatic effect. I pointed at the stack of essays I had pushed aside. –You know what this is?

–The essay I didn’t do? –Damian cringed a little, scratching the back of his head. Again, the motion sparkled something weird in the back of my mind.

–Exactly. And they all suck. –I said confidently, my response taking him back a little. _Great_. –Let’s make a deal. Bring me an essay that is actually good and I’ll see what I can do for you. When is our next class?

I already know the answer, but I want to hear him say it.

–Next monday.

–Next monday, right. So you’ll have the whole weekend to come up with something. Beware, I’ve had enough of bad essays. –I point to the papers on the table, still keeping a straight face. –Do you remember the theme?

–Yes. –He nods rapidly, still a little shocked. I bet the other teachers gave him a hard time. –I can do it.

–That’s great. Is there anything else you want to talk about?

Most times, the immediate answer to a question like this is “yes” or “no” and “thank you”. But Damian just stared at me, as if he was still debating on what the answer would be – which means that yes, there is something he wants to talk to me about. But after those seconds of hesitation, he shook his head and offered me a small smile.

–Thank you, Ma’am.

–Damian. I’m not even ten years older than you. –I deadpanned, thinking back to the last time I was called “ _ma’am_ ”.

–You’re… Not?

–I’m twenty four. Don’t call me “ma’am”. –I roll my eyes, leaning back on my chair. –Or are you saying that I look old?

–No ma’am! –The boy rushed to fix his words, panicking. –Mrs! I mean… Miss! Miss... I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.

 _Ah_. He definitely heard of the missing wedding ring as well (or seen it). Oh, rich people do love gossip, don’t they? To be fair, it’s not at all surprising and it doesn’t bother me at all, but it’s interesting to see how far the story has come. Thinking back to it, I’ve never seen Damian with any friends – I remember that he used to walk around with his older brother, Tim, an incredibly sweet boy who always had great grades. He graduated high school on the last semester and left for college. Maybe that played a part on the boy being suddenly so distracted: if Tim really was his only friend around here, the lack of support might make school hellish for him.

–Don’t worry about it. –I smile to reassure him and move to put my things back in place; I definitely need to go home. Damian seems to think the same, as he nods awkwardly and get’s up to leave. –Hey, Damian!

I call the boy back before he opens the door again, and he turns back to me at the same moment.

–Yes?

–I know that I’m not the school counselor or something like that, but if you want to talk about anything, you can feel free to come and talk to me. I know it’s not my business, but I know that it might be a little hard to settle back in school without your brother here.

My commentary made him freeze on the spot.

_Ha! Got it._

–Tim… –He started out, crossing his arms and looking to the ground, suddenly very insecure again. –He’s is an asshole and we can’t stand each other, but… It’s kind of strange to not have him around here. Or _home_. Sure.

 _Ah_. Despite the Gotham University being close enough to their home, the older boy probably wanted to get the full experience and move from his father’s house; which is completely understandable. And as clear as Damian made it, despite the rivalry with his brother, he misses him a lot (although I doubt he will ever say the full words).

–That’s completely understandable. I bet he’s having a hard time too, settling into college without you around. –With furrowed brows, Damian raised his head to look at me, confused. _Or_ _pondering_. –You know, it’s ok to be upset. And it’s not your fault that you’re having a hard time dealing with it. I think that if you try to push yourself to fall back into that old rhythm, you will only hit a wall, just like this. Maybe try going on about the things that you like first, and then try to keep up with the rest.

–What do you mean? –Damian asks tilting his head.

–Miss Sorrento likes your work; she says you’re talented, but that you don’t really invest on it. You like art, don’t you? Painting, drawing and all of that? –The boy nodded shyly, while some color rose to his cheeks. –Try to take some time for this, Damian. Even if all you do is doodle on a post-it! Art is a really good outlet and it could help you reach a much more peaceful state of mind.

–I don’t really do anything at home. –He shrugged again, his face a little somber.

Maybe his family isn’t supportive of art; he’s expected to take after his father or something of the like. Or maybe they don’t even know that this is what he likes. It wouldn’t be exactly surprising.

–I understand; that happens. But you can lock yourself in your bedroom for five minutes and doodle something on a post-it, right? –I try to instigate, hoping that it will lighten his mood a little; it works. –You can take a break while writing that essay and do it. I bet it’s a good start.

This time, I got Damian to smile. A big, bright smile that I’ve never seen on his face before, and it was enough to make me smile back.

–Sounds good. –Nodding happily, Damian looks as young as he actually is, for once. –I’ll try that.

Rising from the chair that I’ve been sitting on for hours now, I could almost hear my back screaming in protest. Ignoring the discomfort, I took my bag off the table and pointed at the door.

–I’m done grading for now. Let’s go home.

We walked out together. There were no other students on the school, but we did pass some teachers on our way out – they all looked a little surprised to see me in company of Damian. Usually, the only one who seems to work a pacifying charm over him is Clara Sorrento.

I know that she wouldn’t put him in any sort of trouble, despite the assignments he claimed to “suck”. Hannah and Otto; math and biology teachers, can be a little strict, but I know that I can talk them into giving him an extra assignment, if I tell them about this conversation we had about his brother and struggling at school. Because of the somewhat common subjects, I’m friends with the advanced geopolitics teacher – I can definitely make Michael let Damian pass. But I won’t tell him about it; let’s see how it unfolds first. Let’s see if he behaves, in the next week.

Outside, the sunset casts an orange glow all over the brown building we just came out off. The usually gray grass gleamed yellow and the sky colors were blending in between golden and pink – it’d be dark soon. And in Gotham, it’s never good to stay out when it’s dark, especially if you’re alone. Usually, Austin would come to pick me up after his own shift; now, it’s a twenty minute walk from the school to my apartment, and never before I considered buying a car so bad. While twenty minutes definitely aren’t tiring, it is definitely dangerous out.

–Brat! –Someone screamed ahead of us. Against the sunlight, it was barely impossible for me to see any faces, but it was definitely a man.

– _Ugh_. –Damian grumbled by my side, rolling his eyes with an annoyed expression. –My brothers came to pick me up.

Ah, right. As far as everyone knows, Bruce Wayne has adopted four kids; three boys and a girl. Then, he had Damian – the only one whom he shares blood with. No one really knows about his mother. At that, I’ve never seen or heard of one, either.

Either way, I never had the curiosity to stalk the family of billionaires to know who his kids were, aside from Damian and Tim, whom I taught.

Squinting my eyes, I identified two men coming in our direction. Both were tall, muscular and dark haired; one seemed a little bit broader. And as I took them in, I also saw someone else approaching us from my side.

_Fucking Austin Meyers._

Seeing him walking on the school grounds in my direction, my primal instinct was to scream very loud and then crouch down to pick up rocks to throw at him. However, the rational vein in me reminded that I was in company of my student and I not only didn’t want to expose him to this sort of vulgarity, it was also a private matter that I’d have to cease very quickly, on my own.

When I turned my head to Damian to say goodbye, I saw that with furrowed brows, the teenager was looking in the same direction as I previously was, watching as my inconvenient ex came to me.

–Have a good weekend, Damian. –I try to put a reassuring smile on my face, which judging by his weirdly concerned expression, doesn’t work wonders. –And don’t forget my essay.

I don’t wait for an answer; I don’t want to leave space for any sort of discussion.

By the time I started walking away from him, his brothers were only a few feet away from us – barely looking at them, I nod in their direction with a smile, which is the signature teacher reaction to greeting parents and relatives around here, and keep walking ahead.

I have a man to eviscerate.

Wearing a navy blue dress shirt with a black tie, probably fresh out of work, Austin looks like every inch of the scumbag that he recently turned out to be. The light wind shakes his blonde hair out of place in a comic fashion and taking his figure in for the first time in almost a week, the thought that I’m no longer in a relationship with this guy warms my chest rather than making me feel upset.

Actually, now it’s a lot easier to identify his flaws and embrace my disgust by him, which makes me feel pretty great about myself.

–Hey. –Austin approaches me with a restrained expression, for whatever reason. –I’ve been trying to talk to you since Monday.

– _What the fuck_ are you doing here? –It’s a rushed whisper, the best I can manage as I the anger quickly makes it’s way back to me. Despite my best efforts, I can’t keep my composure perfectly in place. –And I sent you a message. It was pretty clear!

–Can you stop that? You’ll make a scene. –He whispered back, in the same rushed tone.

For the first time in years, his sudden proximity make me very uncomfortable and the controlling words almost made me feel bad about my actions – but I thought back to what I said; whispers. My mom told me about this before: about how men will try to control the volume of your speech and find a way to convince you that you’re better off silent. The realization came in quick and flared that hot rage back in my blood again.

–You think that you can corner me on my job and then tell me how to talk? –Still whispering, I press back. No gestures, no movements, no raised voices. I want to disembowel this little prick so discretely that everyone who sees him crying will be asking themselves where exactly did it come from. –I’m not having a conversation with you. What I had to say has been said; go back to your phone and take a look.

–Why won’t you let me talk to you? –Austin raised his voice a little, growing exasperated. Not loud enough to draw attention, but exasperated enough to look suspicious in case anyone was paying attention. _Great_.

–I don’t want to talk to you. –I point out, straightening my back. I know what is to come; I need to take it off my system. – _Cheater_.

The word alone seemed to be a potent blow to his chest. Austin stared at me speechless, wearing a weird expression that seemed to be the perfect ensemble of offense, rage and confusion. Poor entitled little man, unused to being reprimanded and having his mistakes pointed out. I can’t believe that I would settle for something so… _Pathetic_. Damn, wasn’t it a bullet that I dodged?

–Why would you say something like that? –He finally exclaimed, gesticulating violently again. Bringing his hands to what I deemed to be way too close to me and most important of all, acting as if he actually believed that I was the one doing something wrong.

–Why would you come after me after I told you _not_ to? –I strike back, still talking lowly, but dangerously close to retorting to that later desire of screaming and throwing rocks. –You’re a _cheater_ and a _liar_ , and I’m not interested in anything else you have to say.

–We’ve been together for four years! –He said again, coming closer to tower over me. Again, the motion made me very uncomfortable and I took a step back, putting a hand in between us. –We can’t pretend that it never happened.

–On monday, you didn’t seem to care about four years. Today, neither do I. Leave me the fuck alone, Austin. –I talk back, convinced that this is the end of the discussion.

There’s no immediate answer from him. Taking that as a victory, I dodge him on the grass and start walking on the direction of the street, confident that maybe this is will be the last interaction I’ll ever have with this man – feeling at peace, knowing that the only inconvenience caused was allowing that dumbass to come into my life on the first place. I did lost time, but I also learned a lesson: I won’t ever allow myself to lose time with another disrespectful, mediocre man again. So feeling pretty great about myself, I kept walking –

Until.

I heard the steps approaching me quickly, before I felt his hand hold my arm back. Not hard or in a violent manner, but restraining nevertheless. Suddenly, I felt I bit too hyper aware of my surroundings; of the fact that the car I saw Damian’s brothers get out of was still parked at the same place.

–Come on, don’t walk away like this. Let’s talk. –Austin asked calmly, like one would talk to a scared little kid. Like a manipulative motherfucker.

–If you don’t let go of my arm immediately, I’ll show you a scene. –I say in the same tone, and as a response his hand leaves my arm by the second. _Great_. –Show up at my job or my apartment ever again and I’ll call the cops and file for a restriction order.

He didn’t say anything else. I kept walking ahead and eventually, I heard his steps follow an opposite direction. Finally allowing myself to breathe out and loose my shoulders a little, I eventually became aware of my heart beating so hard and fast that It seemed to be on the verge of a collapse.

Waiting for the traffic lights to turn green for me was almost painful, and by the time I crossed the street to get home, I felt like choking up – but I didn’t cry. Once again, I told myself to hold it together and wait until I got home, and so I did. The walk took much longer than the usual, and it was definitely dark by the time I actually got inside.

Just like the last time, I took a very long shower and made dinner – ended up eating only half of the plate, then left it on the kitchen counter with a bitter taste on my tongue. I marched to the stairs without much thinking.

What are the odds that the lighting would strike me _twice_ in the same place?

Using that logic, I sat on the same spot, braced myself and brought those tears from earlier back up. Perhaps feeling a little humiliated by what I publicly went through, on my work space; concerned by what my students and colleagues might have seen and thought; feeling lonely.

I didn’t sob or make loud noises and a total fool of myself, and somehow, that felt even worse than what it did on the last time I’ve been up here.

So I sat there for what could have been ten minutes or a full hour – time is a little wicked when you’re trapped in the void inside your own head. Motionless and hopeless, I was fully capable of staying there until dawn broke over my head again and I had to get up to finish grading those essays that I had completely forgotten about.

And then, on my peripheral vision, I saw something move.

My poor heart, which had a hard day already, failed a couple of beats as I started searching for the source of activity that sparkled my attention.

Despite being crouched down on the darker side of the rooftop from the opposite building, it was hard to miss his figure, once I had my eyes on him. _Red Hood_.

The red helmet made it hard to tell, but judging by his position, he had been looking at me, for whatever reason. The hand that rested on top of his left thigh didn’t bare a pistol, like the last time – in fact, I could actually see the weapon tucked on his holster, almost hidden by the leather jacket. The vigilante didn’t move; and neither did I. I kept my eyes trained on him for a little longer, taking in his figure and asking myself what the fuck was going on and what the hell I was supposed to do about it. So I looked for a little longer: the seemingly relaxed posture, the head tilted to the side... And then, there was hand gesture.

It was small, almost imperceptible, but clear: questioning.

So I looking into his helmet again, trying to imagine the eyes that were looking at me and what they could possibly be thinking about.

_“What the fuck are you doing up here again?”_

It could only have been _this_. What else?

So I got up slowly, without taking my eyes off him. Once I stood up fully, I saw the man nod approvingly and then, his gloved hand pointed to the door behind me.

_“Get in.”_

For some reason, it sent shivers down my spine. And… For what? What would he do if I didn’t come in?

Perhaps by instinct, my eyes went back to the gun on his hip, and the other one that I could now see resting on his right hand. As if the vigilante could tell what I was looking at, he got up and tucked the other gun on the other side of the holster. _Right_. I’m not in the position for questioning.

–Ok. –I murmur in defeat, as if Red Hood could hear me all the way across the street, from the rooftop that he stood on. –Sure.

I shrug and then raise my hand to salute him, mockingly – and if my sanity is still worth anything, I could swear that I saw his broad shoulders shake with laughter.

Did he?

I didn’t stay to check it out. Once again, my heartbeats feel like explosions, as I turned away from him and went for the door. A prickling sensation ran all over my back, as goosebumps started to rise on my skin – then I finally got inside my apartment and closed my door behind my back, breathless.

_Ah, my poor heart._


	3. sharp and thin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! This is going to be my last chapter before the classes start. I already have the next one pretty much planned out, but I have no idea of when I'll be able to write, finish and post.  
> ATTENTION: As I recently learned, in the english language you guys don't use "-" to express dialogues. Whereas in the portuguese language, dialogues can only be expressed in that sign.  
> I only learned that a bit too late haha so I figured that I'd finish the story following that norm, but in the next one I'll use the right sign for sure.  
> Hope it's nice!

The Gotham Museum was to host an exhibition of middle eastern blades, which had been donated or borrowed by a variety of collectors from all around the world. Organized by Diana Prince; well known historical artifacts expert and restorer, the exhibition would last through the whole week, and the opening night would happen on this Saturday, for exclusive guests only.

I got an invitation.

Not necessarily because I was friends with anybody or could afford opening tickets to attend with all of the rich people that this sort of event usually attracts. In reality, I don’t even know how these things are sorted out in between them – and considering my current position, I don’t think I’ll ever learn.

No, no, no. In reality, the Gotham Academy sent me an invitation for two, as well as to a couple more teachers who they deemed righteous to be in the exhibition. Being the history teacher to high school level students, I was part of the somewhat select group that was chosen to be there – and I could only think about whose idea it was to bring elementary, middle and high school teachers to an event that, regardless of it’s true finality, would be filled by the rich and media personalities who would show up solely to remind everybody that they were still _there_.

Now obviously, my initial plan was to bring Austin with me, but that will no longer happen.

I almost retorted to accept the clue to not show up at all. What could I possibly do there, anyway? Walk around alone, like a creep, while a lot of high class people stared at me wearing whatever cheap dress I could afford and thought to themselves just about the same thing?

Perfectly convinced to stay in bed during the whole day, completing the grade scheme from under the covers and feeling sorry for myself, my day had a depressing start. Until, of course, Clara Sorrento suddenly texted me. She was shocked to know – the school had received some invitations to the exhibition on the Gotham Museum, and apparently, only male teachers had been invited.

Thinking back to it, I was in fact the only female history teacher in the actual staff. The geography, politics and sociology teachers were all men, too. With the sudden realization, I decided to invite Clara to come with me instead, so we could raise the demographic for female teachers on the event. She, too, accepted to come out of spite.

Left with poor options and a short amount of time, I rushed to the mall to find a nice dress to wear. My income doesn’t leave much space for a cool fitted suit or a couture dress adorned by pretty jewelry. However, in a devoted search and much patience, I found a long black dress that paired with the right earrings, would do the work just fine.

As usual, I encountered dozens of students around there. They would smile and wave at me; some of the girls were as sweet as coming closer to give me a hug and then quickly walk away. The positive energy helped lift me up a little – only if they knew how much I needed it.

I didn’t stay in the mall for much longer. I still wanted to go home, leave the scheme organized for my Monday classes, make dinner and even then, have enough time to do my makeup and deal with my hair. Clara would come to pick me up at 8pm; she’s the one of us who has a car, after all. So with a few more waves to the students that I encountered along the way, I went back home with my purchases in the bags: the black dress and the long silver earrings that were supposed to make my outfit look less basic.

As much as I told myself to not freak out over the event, I definitely did. I mean – Diana Prince? I actually went to lectures with her before and accompanied her work in every way I could. In the last couple of years, she has been an incredibly strong presence in Gotham. Some say she found a secret man in here, while others simply shrug and assume that for some reason, the incredible woman grew fond of this god forsaken city.

Either way, it’s undeniable that I’m a huge fan and that coming to the exhibition today, to coexist with people who are definitely not part of my natural habitat, was completely unnerving. I checked the hours way too many times for it to be normal; held my phone up to call Clara and say that I wouldn’t be able to make it and even tried on my shoes incessantly, trying figure out which one would look more acceptable. Is _it too much? Is it too little?_ What are the odds that I’ll walk in there and totally embarrass myself?

But I can only panic enough.

Clara came to my apartment good thirty minutes before the expected, while I barely had my eye shadow done, still barefoot and hair tangled in a complete, disappointing mess. The art teacher, on the other hand, put my basic bitch fashion to shame. She walked in wearing a beautiful, shiny red dress that clearly was cut to be worn by someone who had the confidence of a goddess. Smiling triumphantly, in clear spite of getting to go to the exhibition by Diana Prince, Clara sat on the chair close to my bed and started tattling. All in all, Clara provided me with full coverage of what had been happening on the event so far and constant updates on who had showed up already – including our colleagues, who had posted pictures with their dates as well.

In backlash, she made me pose “spontaneously” in bed as if I had no idea that the picture was being taken, to post on her stories.

–Beware, bitches, we’re coming for you. –Clara whispered under her breath, uploading the picture with a mischievous glint on her eyes. –It’s too bad we don’t have someone to take a picture of us. We’re like Morticia Addams and that one sexy fish from Shark Tale.

The image that her words sent into my mind was beyond comical, but it was definitely true. I looked nowhere as remarkable as Clara did on her shiny dress, but I was feeling pretty great about myself too, growing more and more into the bronze eyes I had going on. We’d blend in just fine.

–Clara. –I called out, as a memory was triggered on my brain, for an unknown reason. –Do you know Damian Wayne?

–Damian? You meant my love child? –She joked, smiling behind her phone, still typing something.

–Yeah, him. –I nod, trying to figure out a hook to bring the story from yesterday. Do I start by the extra assignment? The clear family issues? Or do I start with the ending; about how I had to ditch the rest of the conversation with the boy to fend off my ex? –So… He came to me yesterday, to talk about his grades. Than we ended up having a whole conversation about school, family and his interests too. Can you believe that? He’s a little secretive, so I was surprised with everything that we talked.

–You did? What did he tell you?–Clara perked up from behind her phone, with her eyebrows raised in surprise. –When you start talking to Damian, he just turns out to be a really shy boy, isn’t it? I think he is very sentimental.

–Yeah, maybe it’s that cliché thing that he doesn’t get enough attention from his family. –I shrug, bending down a little to face the mirror to apply eyeliner. –He barely scored anything in history and came to ask for an extra assignment; I pressed a little and he admitted that he’s been a little depressed because his brother left, and it is getting in the way of his productivity. Then I asked what else he had trouble on, and he mentioned arts.

– _Oh_ … Right. –She nodded in recognition. –I didn’t do a test, but I asked for lots of projects. His were all a little somber; a little dark. Nothing explicit, but you can tell by the colors that there’s something going on. But regardless of that, they’re really good: he still has the best grades on my class. That was all? Not chemistry?

–No. But math, biology and geopolitics were an issue. He was really upset and very honest, so I’ll try to give him a little help. I texted Hannah yesterday and she promised to give him an extra assignment. I’ll talk to Michael too, I don’t think it will be any hard.

–Oh, that’s great. I’ll talk to Otto, we’re friends now. It’s just, you know… –Clara breathed in deep and leaned on the chair again, wearing a concerned expression. –I think that Damian is oppressing his potential; but I told you about this before. He won’t tell me why: I don’t know if his family is disapproving or if he’s just scared to come out as an artist when… I mean, have you ever heard of them or what they do?

–No, actually, I didn’t.

–He’s older brother is a detective, if I’m not mistaken; I think the other one is a mechanic. His sister is travelling the world and you know that Tim just got into business school. And Bruce Wayne is, well, Bruce Wayne. I think that Damian is scared of being the only one doing something unconventional, especially since he’s the only blood heir. You know? Maybe there’s some pressure there. Again, he never tells me anything. I know that he can be a little edgy, but I care a lot about that kid.

It does make sense. Actually, Clara’s much more detailed take on the family gossip is a lot more helpful than the sloppy conclusions that I had tried to make on my own.

–Wasted potential crushes your spirit. –I murmured in response, ending the conversation. I’ve had enough of work; it’s time for something else, something nice.

Before leaving, Clara showed me some fresh pictures of Diana Prince, posing with what seemed to be the rest of the staff; from a first look, the woman wore a beautiful silver gown that looked every inch expensive as I knew it actually was. Clara had the same to say about it, followed by an annoyed command to put my shoes on quickly.

Not surprisingly, traffic wasn’t quick either. While Gotham City isn’t a particularly huge place, the high quantity of cars that dragged themselves around the museum precisely because of the exhibition made the streets beyond hellish, and way too hard to get into. We definitely had an even harder time finding a place to park, and then getting across the crowd to get inside.

There was an honest to god red carpet lying on the ground, all the way up the stairs that lead to the entry of the museum. Dozens of photographers walked around with cameras in hands, seemingly wary of something; probably waiting for another celebrity to show up. Who, though? Perhaps Bruce Wayne, our local billionaire, had not arrived yet. I know for sure that none of them would like to miss an exclusive picture of the man. Would he come accompanied with a new, surprising date? Would he come with one, if not two of his children? These questions would definitely be answered tomorrow, on every single magazine and newspaper. The entire city appeared to be fully fascinated by the man, anyway.

The hostess too, would probably be followed around restlessly until the end of the event. She was, after all, a somewhat mysterious and enticing figure that spiked everybody’s general curiosity. But she wasn’t outside anymore; from now on, only the handpicked photographers who got a permit to come inside the museum would get to see her. And even with an actual invitation to come inside, I didn’t have hopes of crossing her path either, for that matter.

Either way, Clara and I made our way in. We did collide with our colleagues soon enough and by lack of better option, all of us stuck together, walking around as a group and actually analyzing the pieces in display. Along with the other two history teachers, I was one of the few who knew perhaps a little more about what we were actually seeing. There were Iranian blades, Turkish Yagatans, Oman and Saudi Arabian jambiyas, and so much, _much_ more. Some pieces that dated to four centuries back, in all states of conservation, regardless of most of them being incredibly well kept – this has been gathered by Diana Prince, after all. It shouldn’t be at all surprising that some of these blades look so polished that they might as well have been forged in the past week. In carefully written descriptions, there was information on origin, date and source of each piece.

Not long into the event, Clara and the geopolitics teacher were walking in arms, being a little flirtatious with each other. It was a little awkward to stay in between our other colleagues and their dates, who they were clearly trying to impress, so I made up a quick excuse to distance myself from them.

Which naturally left me to either look something up on my phone, like twitter, or go on about the exhibition and explore the pieces on my own – and considering I’d hardly ever get another chance to be invited to come to an event like this, I decided upon doing the later. The museum was filled with people, anyway, and staff members walked around frantically trying to make sure that everything was going on smoothly or that their most important guests were always in company.

I started to stalk the section of jambiyas: they are curved, double-edged daggers originated from Yemen, that were taken by travelers to other places such as Persia, India and the Ottoman empire. Each new culture determined the alterations that the blades suffered, which gave them a whole new identity. Jambiyas from Yemen are particularly small; the ones from Persia are much longer and decorated, while the Indian are much more curved and slightly smaller. The handle of the Ottoman jambiya seems so impractical that it is almost comical.

Many times, I caught myself looking behind my shoulders, searching for one of the history teachers to make a comment about one of the blades or to share a historical fact that they triggered. My eyes never found them anywhere close, which was disappointing. And well, this is something horrible and hopeless to think about, but Austin would have been great company. He wasn’t that interested in history, but he’d let me go on and on about whatever facts and theories I decided to spill on him. He would have followed me around and listened to my ramblings; and if it spiked his attention enough, he’d say something like “tell me more about it”, which is a sentence that every history teacher loves to hear.

Or me, simply.

I kept walking, in between stolen glances to check the hours on my phone – I wasn’t having a bad time, but walking around alone was getting kind of boring. At some point, Diana Prince gave a speech on the importance of the support of history and art in Gotham, mentioning how that sort of culture had a great impact on the people and meant a lot to society. It was nice and seemed to mark a new phase of the event – from where I was standing, the difference was alcohol. Looking attentively, I saw that Clara was still attached to Michael. Judging by their faces, there were actual chances that I wouldn’t have a ride to go back home, tonight. So I checked the hours again; it was close to midnight. I’d check out a couple more pieces and then make up an excuse to leave earlier.

Walking back into the hall where most of the Persian pieces were, I found the place much emptier. Perhaps everyone else got lured to the center of the museum by the free alcohol and celebrity chatter; it hardly was because of their pure interest in the yagatans and scimitars that were displayed there.

I walked quietly until the end of the collection, to see the last item – It was a Persian Khanjar, which is one of the variations of the jambiya, from Oman. Longer and thinner, the blade is much more lethal; made for actual wars. This one in particular, despite it’s beautiful intricate handle and looking perfectly polished, had marks of usage that implied that the dagger had seen some adventure, back on it’s day. Which, by the way, would have been –

Inconclusive. It’s what the information plate said. The historians and researchers had reached to no estimated date of origin and the person who sent the piece wanted to remain anonymous.

–That’s weird. –I muttered under my breath, growing curious of the blade. Why was so mysterious about it?

–It is. –An unknown, grave voice agreed by my side. The sudden presence almost made me jump, but perhaps getting accustomed to being inconvenienced by random people who show up out of nowhere, I was capable of containing myself.

So I turned to my left, where I could already make up the man coming to stand by my side, and he was… Well, “weirdly familiar” is a way of putting it. Tall, somewhat pale, dark haired… With beautiful green eyes so shiny that they could have been described as either magical or unnatural.

–Hello. –I offered a smile, still feeling a little odd from the sudden scare.

–Hello. –The stranger smiled back, tilting his head to the side; and he was beautiful. Then, he shook his head lightly and nodded to the dagger that I had been watching. –What do _you_ think it’s weird about it?

–The description is a little odd; or the lack of it. –I add quickly, looking back to the silvery plate engraved with only a few words. This thing must have cost a bit too much to have only a few words in it. –They didn’t even write what type of blade this is.

–Do you know a lot about middle eastern daggers? –The man tilted his head again, with a glint in his eyes that I couldn’t quite place. Like he knew something that I didn’t (a feature that I don’t really enjoy, especially when they come from men. On his face, however, it was a little enticing).

–Only enough. –I nod and turn my eyes away from him. –This is a Persian Khanjar. But you already can tell that it’s persian.

Naturally. Since most of the pieces being displayed in that wing of the exhibition had persian origin, he’d be an idiot to guess that it was, I don’t know, form India or Turkey. But I didn’t say that out loud – it would be a bit rude.

–Of course. But do you see the patterns in the base of the blade? Doesn’t it look like what they did in the Ottoman daggers?

The question was a little surprising. Not only because it did, in fact, looked a little like the patterns originated from Ottoman empire, but also because I didn’t expect to be talking to anyone with the faintest knowledge on anything, today. Especially not now.

–What do _you_ know about middle eastern daggers? –I ask back, tilting my head back to look at him.

–Only enough. –He smiled again, with eyes still focused on the khanjar. –If you were to guess, when was this forged?

Again, the question the man made seemed to come out of the blue. I searched for his eyes again, for some confirmation of what I had heard, but they were still focused on the blade. Who was he? Another teacher? A historian, a enthusiast? Someone who, for some reason, knew a thing or two about blades forged in the Middle East. What would be his name, anyway? That hadn’t been said, and despite really wanting to know, something in me didn’t want to ask.

–This is well past the evolution that occurred from jambiyas to khanjars, so it was probably made after the 17th century. And the blade is polished, but it was used. –I point out the last fact, which for some reason had been nagging the back of my head.

–Yes, it has. –It’s all he says, still looking straight.

The man was handsome, but his behavior was a little odd.

With the area being so empty, it was easier to identify noises around. So the moment I heard steps entering the hall, my ears perked up, half expecting it to be my friend looking for me. So I stepped back a little and looked around – and the person I saw was no one other than Damian Wayne. Wearing an impeccable suit and with his hair as in place as I have ever seen it, the boy’s shocked expression indicated that he was just as surprised to see me there.

–Excuse me. –I whispered to the man with a light nod and left my spot by his side to go to Damian.

So in the end, Bruce Wayne had come to the exhibit with his youngest son. I bet the magazines would be a little disappointing tomorrow – unless the billionaire came with his son _and_ a date. Now that could be potentially scandalous. I mean, did that ever happen? To be fair, I can’t even recall if he has a girlfriend, or the last time I’ve seen some gossip about the women that the he dated. It made me think about Damian and the mother that I’ve never heard of – was she one of those models? Perhaps a socialite or a fling that went wrong?

–Don’t you have a bedtime? –I question him with a smirk, fully aware that nowadays, not even my eleven year old students have bedtimes. The question was, too, the first thing that popped in my mind to distract me from the subject of his parents.

–I saw Miss Sorrento back there. –Damian says with furrowed brows, ignoring what I said completely. –She’s with the geopolitics teacher; that was weird.

–It is. –I nod, holding my tongue to not go ahead and make an acidic comment on the flirting that is going on in between them; Damian is our student, I’m not going to demoralize my colleagues in front of him like that. –Where is your father?

–Putting up with nosy people. –He shrugs, wearing an annoyed expression that made his disgust by the unwanted spotlight evident. –Are you alone here?

–Not really, I was talking to this… –I turned to show him, but found that the hall was empty; the man who had talked to me previously was completely gone. In any other scenario, I would have commented about how weird it was that the guy had disappeared. But again, there was a part of me that didn’t want to point it out. –I think I didn’t see him leave.

–Yeah, probably. –He nodded, with furrowed brows. Damian stole a glance to something behind my back, which I didn’t follow, and then pointed to the main hall.

I was no longer interested in seeing any of the pieces, anyway. I had done my fair share of paying attention and respecting the work and dedication that came from the group that had put this whole exhibit together. After eyeing the things I had the most interest on and going through a very odd encounter with an unknown creep, exploring had already lost it’s fun.

–Sure; let’s go.

I followed him in a slow pace. His posture was different: still in place, but this time, much more confident and imposing. _Of course_ – Damian grew up in this environment. His father probably gave him a master class on how to behave and hold himself in front of the people. The façade; I know for sure that he is capable of keeping quite the variety on his sleeve – the angry and unreasonable kid; the irresponsive teenager; the boy who’s so sweet and polite; the young man who’s sure of himself.

–When I was younger, he could use me as an excuse to go home earlier. –The boy says only loud enough for me to hear it.

Coming closer to the main hall, where a much higher number of people are concentrated on, I notice how people are stealing glances at him. Judging from what I can see myself, it’s not for any particular reason other than the fact that he is a Wayne. They like gossip – it’s the combustible of unoccupied, nosy rich people. I think that life get’s really boring when you no longer have any goals to reach for.

–You don’t like the exhibit? –I try to distract him from the evident stares. No wonder why he was walking around the empty halls as well.

–I would like it more if I came here alone, in any other day. –He nods, offering me a charming smile that is clearly trained. Acting like this, juggling manipulative façades, Damian seems to be much wiser than what everybody takes him for. It also makes me think of what other disguises he has and which one exactly is the true layer. I mean; how many layers can a fifteen year old boy have? –Without the _vultures_.

–I understand. But keep something in mind: the vultures are one of the smartest animals on the environment. They can and _will_ feed from anything; vultures don’t even need to make the kill. Their beak is designed to pick the scraps in between close bones and if you try to consume one of them, you’ll die. –Realizing that I had gotten a bit too far on my storytelling, I stop myself from talking further. Scaring the boy away with my creepy analogies wasn’t my original intention; he is a bit too young to hear things so rough. Not _yet_ and definitely not from _me._ –Don’t look down on these people, Damian. The second you turn your face away, they will be pinching in between your ribs.

Damian doesn’t say anything back, but the contemplative look that I see in his face is the only answer I need.

The boy is getting older and soon enough, he’ll be within the vicious predatory range that waits for him. Growing up is hard, but growing up when the entire city has eyes on you, hungry for any trace of a mistake, is going to be agonizing. From what I’ve seen so far, he has learned pretty quick a cold and simple way to deal with it, but I just don’t know if it’s safe for him.

It’s easy to fuck kids up.

–Damian?

A grave voice calls out from behind the two of us, and I know before even turning around that this has to be his father.

It _is_. Bruce Wayne, our local billionaire whom I’ve only ever seen through the TV, cell phone screen and newspapers. Not even during parent-teacher conferences, for reasons which I cannot recall (or I do; I do remember talking to an older man during those conferences). The man is tall and broad – a feature that I definitely see Damian growing into. Actually, now that I can see his father from up close, it is undeniable that the two of them are related: from their body type to their faces, the beautiful blue eyes that are clearly the same, Damian could only have been Bruce Wayne’s son.

–Mr. Wayne. –I smile and raise my arm so we can shake hands, falling back into my sociable teacher persona. –I’m Damian’s teacher. It’s nice to finally meet you.

Even their smiles are the same. Bruce Wayne, too, seemed to have made an effort to bring out his charming façade, just like I have seen Damian do earlier – so I know where the boy got it from, after all. And it does work: the older Wayne is handsome, his smile is charming and his well trained eyes can be completely enticing.

I get why so many women thirst after this man. I definitely do. Had I not been sick and tired of handsome playboys who seem perfect, I probably would too.

–Are you the history teacher? –Bruce asks, with a much warmer smile on his face; playful, almost. Damian nodded to his father before I could answer by myself, while a timid smile crept it’s way into his face. –Miss L/N, right? Damian told me about you.

Now that’s new. What type of conversation was it, to start with? I mean, how exactly did it go? Is his father in touch with what Damian does in school to the point of discussing his teachers and their classes? I mean – I’ve definitely met parents who can’t even spell their kid’s names right. Believe it or not, it _is_ surprising.

–Oh, did he?

–Yes. We’ve had some conversations about school lately. We’re trying to get better, right? –Bruce asked looking back to his son, who went red from the cheeks to the tip of his ears in a matter of seconds.

–Yes, sir. –The boy nodded to his father rapidly and then looked back to me, posing in a composed posture that imitated his father’s in every way.

 _Oh_ _my_ … I can’t believe this is the same boy whose stories described as a wild, rude, bratty and violent kid who couldn’t even be told to stand still (and not absolutely freak out about receiving a command, on the first place). Kids do act different in front of their parents, don’t they?

–We talked, too. I’m happy to see him making an effort. I know that Damian is more than capable of exceeding on whatever he sets his mind to. –I smiled to him once again and looked back to his son, who held himself in place in a bright shade of red. –Let’s see what happens. Well, Mr. Wayne, it was really nice to meet you.

–Likewise.

–But this is my time to go.

–Ours, too. –Bruce Wayne nodded at me again and brought one arm up to hold Damian. –We’re going to say a few goodbyes and then leave. Good night, miss Y/N.

Damian waved at me awkwardly, under his father’s embrace (although he didn’t seem to mind it at all, which is sweet).

–Good night. Bye, kid.

I waved back and turned away to go find the entry of the museum again. It was only after the freezing cold wind hit me in the face that I realized that I had left the exhibit without even warning Clara before. A brief thought to come back inside crossed my mind, but I excluded it quickly – I had nothing else to do there.

I texted her a quick explanation and the arts teacher answered me under two minutes with a dismissive _“ok, keep safe”_. Tucking the phone back on my clutch with a sigh, I looked up to see that there were plenty of cabs around – I’d hail one to go back home.

Once I finished giving my address to the driver and leaned back on the seat to wait it out, I saw something move on the other side of the street. – the nameless man who I met inside the museum, watching the persian khanjar, looked back at me. It was quick: barely real. By the time I looked back to the same place, to make sure that it wasn’t just a trick played by my own mind, it was empty again.

Not a single trace of the stranger, just a fearful thought that maybe, _just maybe_ , I finally went insane.


	4. poisonous - is the word

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! I know, the chapter is short, but it's what I could manage. the classes are draining me.  
> Also, there's a twist - the chapter is from "jason's" point of view, despite beng narrated by the third person. PLEASE LET ME KNOW if you're interested in more chapters written from his point of view or if just the reader is fine.
> 
> Also. It's oficial. I'm on cinema and audio-visual school yay! It's WILD and I already have so many projects I want to execute.
> 
> Either way, go read and have fun.

This was an unusual morning on the Wayne household.

Nice, but unusual nevertheless. The day wasn’t cloudy or cold, for once; the manor smelled like pancakes, cinnamon and coffee and there were lots of different voices filling in the silence that usually took place. Bruce had tried, but he couldn’t remember the last time they managed to have all five of his kids home, least of all sitting together in the same room.

As it seems, Alfred’s food is an easy way to bring everyone together – that and scolding Jason.

–Why did you have to talk to her? –Damian insisted for the fifth or sixth time, making everyone groan once more. The boy was standing close to the balcony, making an effort to not jump on his brother.

Jason did not answer, again, which also made it a little more stressful – because it meant that Damian would keep repeating that very same question until he got an answer. The boy had done his fair share of maturing, but his eager, impatient nature had not yet faded. Jason, on the other hand, was not eager at all; in fact, he was trying to make a point out of pretending to not hear his younger brother talk.

_–Jason!_

–Oh my god, Jason! Say something so he can shut up! –Tim was the one who snapped first, followed by Cassie’s rushed “ _shut the fuck up, Damian!_ ”

Bruce pretended to not hear any of it. On his defense, he was about to do the very same thing, but Tim and Cassie were faster than him. Damian’s lack of patience destroyed everybody else’s as well and he was a few exclamations away from scolding his younger son too. Not having to go to work today, the man had planned to go down on the cave to do some research and reparations on the batmobile (which has been torn down to pieces for the past 6 days or so). This was supposed to be one of those rare, peaceful days of well deserved rest. Not surprisingly, he hadn’t slept during a single minute since the past day and barely sipped on his coffee before his kids went back to fighting and bickering.

Bruce still had sore spots on his body from the hits his sons had failed to land on each other.

– _Your_ grandfather is smuggling weapons into the city, but I’m bad because I talked to your teacher for five minutes? –Jason finally spoke, fully aware that his words would be as hurtful as he wanted them to be.

They were. Something changed in Damian’s eyes as he took in the words – not rage or sadness, just a lost, broken look that made the boy appear to be much younger and hopeless than what he usually allowed himself to look like. Somehow, it hit them way worse.

–Hey! Could you not be a dick? –Now Tim pointed his fork at Jason.

It was true: Tim and Damian would fight and argue about nothing and everything, but they also had each other’s back. Being the closest in age, the two boys had a lot more in common than with their older siblings, and contrary to what anybody else thought, they did share a lot – including Damian’s insecurities regarding the other side of his family.

–No, he has to be one. –Damian grumbled, but finally sat down to eat on the stool next to his father, with furrowed brows.

It was a dick move – but it definitely worked, so no one argued with Jason any further.

Seeing Damian quiet and in place, the way Jason intended him to be, he reasoned that it wouldn’t hurt to finally give the moody boy an answer. His mean words were uncalled for, anyway, and if the warning look Bruce gave him meant anything, he should start acting a little better.

–She was stalking the daggers. I asked a little about them, figured that it wouldn’t hurt to get a little info. –Jason conceded, rolling the eyes back and cutting another piece of pancake. –The thing is persian, but it has some influence from the Ottoman Empire and was probably forged after the 17th century. It was used, too, but we all know that.

Bruce already knew all of that – but everyone else seemed a little impressed.

After Tim caught the trace of a footprint that implied that the League of Assassins had been making trades and bringing weapons into Gotham, they had been in a quest to track and apprehend everything back. The information could have been a trap, but as they started to work on it, the transactions proved themselves to be true. Not only that, but Ra’s Al Ghul had planned to send a persian dagger to Gotham as well, which was called “khanjar”.

The man was yet to decide in what way the weapon would be brought into the city for whoever was the addressee, so the family thought that it would be a good idea to try and manipulate the trade. With a little talk, Bruce convinced Diana to host an exhibit with middle eastern blades, which would accept pieces from all sorts of donors – it would be the perfect chance to smuggle the dagger into the city without trace and Ra’s fell for it easily.

–It doesn’t matter what you learned, Jason. There was a plan! –Dick argued, going back to the subject that has been screamed about since dawn. Actually, Dick had to drive all the way from Blüdhaven because a very tired Bruce had been holding Jason and Damian apart and Tim decided to call the only person with the ability to deal with both siblings, when they get enraged. –A plan every single one of us agreed with. Couldn’t you follow for once?

–Yeah, yeah, the plan was good. It’s just that it was also _really_ fucking stupid. –Jason raised his voice again, establishing that the fight would probably get back on it’s track. He wasn’t good with being confronted. –If Ra’s sent that shit there, it’s because he already had a plan for someone else to grab it. And you wanted to wait for three more days? For what?! To break in there next week and find the glass case empty? Is that what you had in mind?

–The way the dagger was secured, there was no way that anyone could get in there before us! If you had a problem with it, you should have said something about it! –Dick countered, to which Bruce sighed in exhaustion; they had just gotten over this argument. –And not get in there alone and grab the thing without warning, Jason! Now the police is going to investigate this as a case of theft instead of a deviation mist…

–But none of you ever follow any of my…

–Maybe if you were any…

–Can you please stop?! –Bruce snapped, raising his voice for once. It worked, as everyone in the kitchen froze and shut their mouths immediately to look at their father. –Thank you. And it doesn’t matter anymore: the khanjar is already in our hands, now we move on to the next one. And Jason? If you come up with a better plan, tell us about it. You risked yourself and you risked the mission. Don’t do this again.

Everyone knows that Jason will, in fact, do it again. Nobody comments on it, though – the warning should probably reverberate on his head for a couple more weeks. Despite how badly he tried to prove and believe otherwise, Bruce was still a driving force on his life: he was his father. Not that Jason would ever call him like that again without sarcasm included, but on his subconscious, it was the truth.

They would let it be, for now.

The rest of breakfast was silent: they were all afraid to say something and urge another fight. Mainly Bruce, whose hands were still sore from holding both sons apart from each other. It was definitely easier to contain Damian when he was a tiny 8 year old – he could pick the boy up and carry him away, while whoever he had been fighting in the moment would drop the subject to laugh at the comical sight that it was. Now, Damian was almost as tall as his father, built just like what a boy who has trained during his entire life would have looked like. That, and he was getting old.

It was nearly impossible to come close to bothering Alfred with all of that chaotic energy, but the butler was content to see everyone calm again. This definitely was a rare moment.

Dick left first: he wanted to check something out on the cave. Tim and Cassie were next: they were invested in tracing the weapons and artifacts and wanted to get back to work, down on the cave as well. Bruce was afraid to leave Jason and Damian alone again – the two had a complicated relationship of love and hate. They were either best friends or wanted to beat each other to death, nothing in between.

After a while, he gave up watching for another break out and reasoned that waiting for the disaster to happen would be pointless.

If the two of them went back to fighting and he couldn’t make his way up fast enough, how bad could it get? He knows the answer; it happened before. Jason knocked Damian out and tucked the boy safely on the couch, with a pillow under his head – Jason wouldn’t kill his brother and while Damian might certainly try, he wouldn’t be able to. Not yet, at least. And if he’s honest about it, Bruce truly believes that his youngest son had grown out of his animalistic behavior. It couldn’t get _that_ bad.

So Bruce shot the two of them a warning look and got up to leave. They’d _better_ behave.

Jason had been focusing on his plate, but now that the food was over and his father had left, he finally looked back to his little brother. Damian had been quiet since he talked about Ra’s – he sat by his father’s side and just ate his food without even looking at anybody else.

The turmoil had started when Jason walked into the cave with the dagger in hands. Tim flipped first: they had been planning that entire move for months and then he walked in and screwed everything without a warning. Then, the engines on Damian’s head started turning and he realized that when he saw Jason talking to his teacher, in public least of all, it wasn’t purely because of his interest in history or how pretty she was. He was pestering her about the dagger; getting her involved.

Back in the museum, Damian had even decided to call Jason on the next morning to tell him to fuck off or something of the like. But then, he saw his brother with the dagger in hands, after publicly standing next to his teacher right in front of it’s glass case – and he attended to his primal instinct of trying to eviscerate Jason. The man’s entire action could potentially frame his teacher or put her in grave danger, and the poor woman had just been the nicest to him.

And he also fucked up a very intricate and meticulous plan that they had been working on for months.

Thinking back to it, Jason managed to feel guilty about what he had said and done. He hadn’t really needed to do any of that.

But there was something magnetic about the woman.

From the first time he saw her, there was a hidden force – something fierce pushing back against sadness, and it bewitched him. He wanted that.

Damian had said “ _is that my history teacher?_ ” when they spotted the crying woman – and the two of them went ahead and approached her without reasoning. Jason had never imagined seeing the teacher in daylight, but it wasn’t that surprising (she worked in that school, after all). She smiled at them and Jason wondered how weird it was that she had no absolute idea of who he was and what they had seen. He watched her walk to what was clearly her ex and _fuck_ , only god knew how badly he want to go down there and beat the motherfucker up after he started acting aggressive.

Why did they break up on the first place?

When they met her on the rooftop, sobbing and holding the ring away like it was toxic – what the hell had that motherfucker done to her?

But he couldn’t go there. It would be stupid and it would be stupid, and while it was the only explanation he had, it was also the most valid. Either way, the woman dealt with the whole situation pretty quick. Within minutes, they saw the moron marching back to his expensive car like he was about to cry or throw a tantrum, and honestly, either would be just fine.

On the second time the vigilante walked around that neighborhood, it was intentional. If crying about her ex on the rooftop was an habit, something selfish in him hoped to see the woman up there again. Maybe because he wanted to check on her and try to figure out what had happened. Without fail, she was – holding herself and crying quietly, Jason could almost feel something painful expanding on his own chest.

It was _so_ fucking weird.

 _Red Hood_ motioned to her to get back home, where it’s supposed to be safe, but what he actually wanted was for her to stay out. He wanted to come up and talk about whatever; ask her name and then figure out something else to keep her talking – keep her busy and make that uneasiness that came into his system out of nowhere disappear. How did it even get there, on the first place?

But Jason didn’t move from where he was crouching down. He’d forget the woman and leave her alone – he’d better.

Until, of course, he spotted her standing alone on the museum, wearing those shiny earrings that could be seen from all the way across the hall.

Everything on his mind told him to stay back and wait it out, but at the same time, something urged his body forward. He wanted to come close and hear her voice loud and clear; know what she smelled like and see what color her eyes really were – see her from up close and check if the engagement ring was still placed on her hand; if she sounded depressed of happy.

It was _so_ fucking stupid.

He screwed with Tim’s elaborate plan solely out of anxiety and spite; he got on Damian’s nerves just to be a dick and frustrate the boy and then, to ice the cake, he had to make that comment about the boy’s grandfather. Ra’s al Ghul: the fucking _Methuselah_ in the flesh.

He didn’t need to do any of that – but he did, anyway.

Jason had a problem with impulse.

Now, a innocent civilian could possibly be endangered, his siblings were angry, his father was disappointed and his little brother sat in the stool opposed to him like he would try to do something hurtful again – and _fuck_ , didn’t he feel like an asshole.

Jason should know better – in fact, he kind of did. He had been there; he had met Ra’s al Ghul, he had met Talia, he had met their horrid folk. Jason, more than anyone else, should know better than to poke Damian with that kind of subject. The boy had walked a troubled and tough path to heal and get free from their dreadful ties; Damian had to fight harder than anyone else to be part of that family, despite being the only one with Wayne on his blood and name.

He knew better, it was just really fucking hard to act on it.

–Damian. –He tried, carefully.

The boy didn’t answer, but he did look up. The cautious expression Damian bore on his face made Jason cringe internally again – boy, he _did_ fuck up. For all of that dramatic monologue, his brother had made a way better effort at trying to protect the teacher than what he did, and his only response was to be a… Well, be a dick about it.

–Damian. I… Should not… –Jason tried again, cringing.

Apologies didn’t come easy for the vigilante. Talking was still an issue: establishing basic communication had never been one of his greatest abilities and coming back into life as Red Hood, every single effort that Jason had made as a kid had dissolved or regressed. It wasn’t very helpful for everybody involved. He could try to make an effort, every once in a while, but it was mostly to balance people off their feet or because his words and actions were out before he could even tame himself.

–You don’t have to say anything. –Damian cut him off short before the torture went on, as Jason wouldn’t really do anything but embarrass himself babbling apologies that he didn’t really mean.

–I shouldn’t have said that. –The words Jason wanted to say came out easier, once he saw his brother trying to dismiss his mistake. He was terrible at communication, but great at hating himself.

–It doesn’t matter. –Damian muttered, looking back to his plate with a sick expression. –Because it’s true, whether you meant it or not.

Jason wanted to, but he couldn’t find the words to argue with that – and Damian didn’t wait for him, either. The boy got up to leave and only then, he noticed that his brother’s plate was still full of food: Damian hadn’t taken a single bite of anything. _Sickened_.

 _Fuck_.

–You’re going down to the cave?

–No. I have some assignments to make.

Jason nodded with a tight chest and watched as his brother left the kitchen, still visibly upset with what he had said – it was a delicate fucking subject and he knew it. Frozen in place, his ears picked up on the steps climbing the stairs, as Damian was probably going back to his room to study or do whatever. Somber and sorrowful; something he never wanted to see his little brother act like again, and least of all because of him.

He _did_ fuck up.

Jason left the house without saying goodbyes. Soon, Dick would too; than Cassie and Tim. And in the end, Bruce too would find every excuse possible to not have to come back to the empty home.

Somber and sorrowful were descriptions that easily fit any of the family members.


	5. The ghostman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It is I, the closet monster. This chapter is kinda bad, I know, but I needed it to be done, for the story to make sense. Come on, I can't just slap fan service everywhere - we need plotlines, bear with me. I promise that the next one is a little nicer and it won't take as long to come out. It might be sooner than what you expect, huh?  
> I'm writing some bits of the story during the long-ass bus ride to college, because by the time I get home on the end of the day I'm already fully drained and can't form a single phrase (for some reason, not on fridays? Maybe it's because we drink after class on all fridays and I get home a little "zippy"). So yes, I'm trying to put the sixth together as we speak. There goes the fifth.  
> hope you like it!  
> ps. give me love, I am in emotional need.

The principal wanted to have words with me.

This is the first thing that I was told, the moment I got my feet on the school grounds, at 6am.

Let’s make it clear that at 6am, I don’t feel like being told anything, least of all that my boss wants to “have words” with me. So I walked all the way to his office, poorly humored and making up countless theories as to why he wanted to talk to me – what had I done? Did the school cameras catch me having a discussion with my ex on the outside, last friday? Did I file some documents wrong? Somebody’s parents had a complaint to make about me? Or perhaps it came from one of the students?

Because from personal experience, I can tell that ordinary academic matters are never discussed with such hurry or so damn early in the morning. As far as I can tell, I’m either in trouble or supposed to solve trouble, which is just as bad.

The office, ever so grey and depressing, seemed a bit cold as well (or maybe that was the anxiety causing weird reactions on my body). Mr. Davidson, who I never once saw in anything other than suits or dress shirts, stood close to the door as if he waited for me to arrive – with a grave expression on his face and grasping his hands nervously, as if something bad was about to be discussed.

_Oh fuck._

–Miss L/N. –The principal nodded and pushed the door open, holding it for me to get in.

Nodding back and walking past the man, I could almost feel his evident nervousness buzzing in the air. Mr. Davidson never seemed to be the confident type, if I’m being honest. More like the kind of person that needs to be pushed around to get things rotating on his life; very much faint-hearted. Not really the type of person that should the a principal, least of all on a school like this.

–Good morning. –I try to smile at him, as the man looked like he needed the encouragement, and waited for an indication to sit down.

–Miss L/N. –He repeated, walking to his table and pointing to the chair in front of it. –Well, Miss L/N… In the Gotham Academy, we prize for dedicated professionals who are capable of forming even superior professionals and citizens. In the short time you’ve been part of our faculty, you have proved yourself to be more than adequate to our standards, but... We have, however, heard a complaint coming from one of the parents.

The sentence chilled my blood immediately; it took my mind back to my last interaction with any of my students – and it was, obviously, Damian Wayne. Damian _fucking_ Wayne. Did Bruce Wayne feel uneasy, seeing me interact with his son? Had the kid felt uneasy by any fucking means? If so: when and why? Did he talk to his father about it? What the fuck could I possibly have done?

–From which student? –I press, fully aware that for these matters, names are hardly ever dropped. Some of these people want to be protected, which I guess makes sense (sometimes). The folks in Gotham are not to be trusted.

But seeing as Mr. Davidson isn’t very resistant or tough, I reason that it won’t be hard at all, especially if I get my intimidating expression right (it’s a matter of knowing how to move your brows and keeping the right stare).

–That would be unethical. –He mutters, wearing a fearful expression.

 _I got him_.

–How can I know what I have done if I don’t even know what student is this about? How can I talk about it?

–What happened… Well… No student was harmed, of course, but we have this kid on middle grade, Amelia Meyers… What happened is that, well… You see, Amelia Meyer’s mother, Mrs. Carol Meyers, works on the educational center of the city. I believe you know her, as you were engaged to her son.

Oh, I do know those motherfuckers. What I don’t get is the connection being made: not only I had never taught the little brat, but I hadn’t even gotten close to her in the past semester – I can’t even recall shaking hands or exchanging words with her.

–Yes, I do. And? –I press further, seeing the man almost shake in apprehension.

–Coming from the educational center, Mrs. Meyers has influence on the academy and she is also a great contributor. Very much involved on the school affairs. –Mr. Davidson goes on, visibly cringing at every word. –Recently, she contacted us and said that you have a historic of bad behavior and even had a personal argument here, on the school. We checked our surveillance cameras and it was true. She instructed us to fire you.

Oh.

–Am I being fired because I broke up with your friend’s son?

The words leave my mouth before I can filter them. I know that accusation is not a good way to argue with someone who has much more power than what I do, but regardless of that, no other phrase comes to my mind as I digest what has been said.

–Miss L/N, our institution would never do such thing! –Mr. Davidson rushed to defend himself, but he didn’t seem about to say anything soothing either. –The Gotham Academy is a strict and morally correct environment and we do not condone this type of behavior. But you must understand that while I don’t question your competence, I must consider that Mrs. Meyers has much influence on the school and even on the city. And her requests have much weight on us.

–So _I am_ being fired because I broke up with your friend’s son? –I press again, now much angrier than apprehensive or curious.

The principal didn’t argue to deny and his sorry expression said enough.

–Miss L/N, if you have concluded all of your activities regarding our students grades, we’d like to receive the updated scheme on our system until tomorrow. Once everything is concluded, you’ll be dismissed. Following your contract, you’ll receive unemployment insurance during 26 weeks.

The deliver is cruel.

I can almost feel my throat burning and angry tears battling to come out – and god, haven’t I done enough crying for the past week? Haven’t I done enough sobbing and putting up with all of the wicked things that recently came out of nowhere? Why in the world is all of this happening now? And to me, least of all? I’m not great, but I’m not terrible. I’d say that all of this is, besides terrible, so fucking uncalled for.

–I still have assignments to pick up. –I manage to choke out, hurried. –And six classes to teach today.

–And if you stay to finish those pendencies, that would be great. But on the end of your shift, you must collect your belongings. –Mr. Davidson sentences me, making an effort to look sure of himself. Perhaps more confident, taking in what might be my devastated look.

I left his office without exchanging any words.

Out on the main hall, which was still pretty much empty due to the early hours, I walked straight to the first bathroom I could find – getting into in one of the tiny stalls to… Well, to cry.

You see, crying in bathroom stalls is low – the type of low I hadn’t imagined to ever indulge on since desperate times in high school. Desperate times of worrying about my parents being together, bills they had not yet been paid, not having money to go to college and feeling anxious overall. And now, give or take a decade later, I’m back to crying on a school’s bathroom, but this time, as a newly unemployed teacher.

As it turns out, I didn’t have that much of a “glow up” as some of my classmates and friends did. Back to stake zero it is. Crying on the school’s bathroom stall and grasping my bag so it doesn’t come anywhere near the toilet – it’s pretty much a comic déjà vu. Depressing, too.

But as I previously said, I still have six classes to teach, with approximately thirty students each – and by now, the teenagers were probably filling out the halls and walking around, getting ready for their classes too. Breathing in deep, I decided to come out of the stall to clean my face and leave, reasoning that it would be better to do it before anyone saw me and started gossip. Rich people _do_ love gossip.

So I did it as quick as I could: fixed my face with the little make up I had on my bag and walked out of the bathroom. Doing my active best to keep it together; my students have nothing to do with my problems.

My first two classes were with juniors, than seniors and one of the sophomore classes; and then finally, the lunch break, in which I did not leave my classroom to eat. Actually, I got up to clean it out and organize the things that I would take home with me. There were books, maps, a couple of binders and some papers that I was yet to finish. Things that I wanted to get done with as fast as possible, like the grade scheme that I hadn’t uploaded yet.

In the end, there was only one student whose grades I had not yet put in the system: Damian’s. He had missed one of my assignments and failed the test terribly – but I decided to accept his nothing. As a parting gift, I graded him with A+, which was the highest amongst my other students; everybody’s essays were bad enough that no one got anything higher than a B.

My last class was with sophomores, a term or two after lunch – the class I’d see Damian on.

He didn’t show up early, but it was on time, still. The boy rushed to the back of the classroom and sat on his usual spot, waving timidly after he caught my eyes on him. I smiled, invoking the force out of nowhere – Damian had nothing to do with my sour humor and neither did the other students. Thinking back to them – I could barely remember how the last classes went like.

I wouldn’t ask about the (now useless) essay for now; I’d leave that for later, so it wouldn’t get in the way of the class I had carefully planned on the previous day. And to prevent anyone else from getting jealous, as well. I’m pretty sure everyone is aware that Damian isn’t the best on my history classes.

I followed the scheme. In fact, I didn’t even tell any of my students about leaving the school; they would find out, eventually, if the neatly packed box on the corner of the room wasn’t a clue already.

Once the class, which was the last of the day for them, was over, everyone rushed out without a single glance in my direction. Right, I wouldn’t miss _that_. Damian, however, stayed back – so he had, after all, done the assignment (or at least figured out a better excuse to get it over with).

–Did you write the essay? –I smile at him, getting up to pack everything in my bag (as anxious to leave as my students usually are).

–I did. –He nods and walks to my table, pulling a transparent folder out of his backpack. –After I got caught on the subject, it was a little hard to stick to the word limit. Also…

–Also… –I encourage, setting my bag down and sitting on the table. It would be my last time here, so I might as well do it.

–Some teachers approached me during the weekend. I got a couple of extra assignments to fix my grades and my advanced geopolitics score came out pretty high. I was wondering if… If you had anything to do with it, I guess.

–Ah, I see… –I pretend to think about it, trying to hide a smile. –Well, I didn’t do anything; maybe it was the Teacher Fairy. There’s one, did you know that? A fairy that helps students when they make an effort.

–The Teacher Fairy? –The boy smiled back to me in complicity. –That’s great. Well… Here’s the essay.

Suddenly nervous again, Damian stepped up to hand me the paper – it was useless. I had already uploaded the school system, but for the sake of respecting the effort that he probably put into studying to write this thing, I decided to read it anyway. At a first look, the formatting was perfect. Damian has a rich vocabulary, but his way of expressing information isn’t gatekeeping – the subject was fully contemplated and judging by the words used, he had actually studied to understand the theme.

The blind A+ was deserved, after all.

–Did you see the post-it?

–The what?

–The post-it. It’s on the end of the page. –Damian reached out to touch the paper I had in hands and tapped the bottom of the paper. –Right here.

I looked down to where he had his finger on: it was a drawing of one of Debret’s illustrations of the enslaved people brought from Africa to Brazil – on a post-it. It was incredibly similar to the original illustration, which made me think of what the arts teacher usually has to say about Damian’s secret talent.

–This is amazing, Damian.

The boy goes red like in the other night. His dark hair, which I recon to be growing a little longer than usual, falls over his forehead and Damian relies on it’s shadow to try and hide his eyes from mine.

–Thank you. I made an effort; it wasn’t that bad. I think that I can get a little better on the next semester. –He offers, smiling timidly at me.

Oh, right: the next semester. What exactly can I say about it? I can’t tell my student that I was fired because my ex is a bitch and he made me lose my job; I also don’t want Damian to know that I dated a man like that. I can’t say that I’m leaving because I got a new opportunity somewhere else or because I’m tired of being a teacher; fuck, I need this job. I need it desperately.

But I can’t lie.

–Which reminds me… Well, Damian, just so we talk about it… –Organizing the words on my mind was much harder than what I thought it would be. Damian looked at me puzzled, but something told me that he already had an idea of what I was about to say. –I’m kind of… Yeah, leaving. Today, actually, is my last day. I was dismissed... Today.

The way his brows were furrowed, you’d say that this was a personal inconvenience to him. Don’t mistake my words: he didn’t look surprised. He did, however, look annoyed and irritated, as if my dismissal was something expected, but upsetting.

–You were dismissed _today_? –He asked with a serious expression, pointing to the floor.

–Yes. It happened. This was my last class, actually.

–Why were you fired? –Damian presses, looking just as grave.

I don’t really want to tell him the reason why. I don’t want to talk about my ex and I don’t want to demoralize the school, despite how angry I already am at them. That anger can stay for me, though – let’s leave the bigotry and injustice for the adults to worry about.

–It’s complicated; complicated people and complicated things. They are very delicate and then, the last you expect, you end up getting harmed by somebody else’s doings. –It’s what I can manage to tell him, figuring that it’s a clean version of the truth. –It’s part of life. It happens; it’s fine.

Judging by his aggravating expression, Damian wasn’t convinced by what I said – but he didn’t press any further, to which I’m grateful for. To be fair, I barely registered the dismissal on my own: it doesn’t feel real, although I know it is. Very real and very haunting (it’s a matter of sinking in).

–It’s complicated. –He nods, seemingly understanding. Again: appearing to be much wiser than what fifteen year olds usually are. – _Ok_.

– _Ok_. –I nod back, thankful that this conversation doesn’t need to get any harder. The boy isn’t one for talking, so the exchange goes as easily as it possibly could. –Until we see each other again, Damian.

–Yeah… Of course.

Damian leaves the classroom without looking back, as if he had something to attend to. Knowing these kids, he might as well have – who knows.

Since I couldn’t carry the heavy box all the way home on my own, I took it to the front of the school and called for a cab. There were no goodbyes: I just took everything that was mine and walked out. I didn’t feel like talking to anyone, least of all people associated to the school.

Maybe I could call someone – go out, perhaps to a bar; have a girls night. _But this is a Monday_ , my brain reminds me. My friends can’t go drinking on the weekdays, and usually, neither could I. Now that I’m unemployed, however, I guess that I am the only one in the group who is available to this type of encounter.

Let’s see. Depending on how bad I feel tonight, I’ll walk into a bar and figure out what to do. What I know is that I’ve had enough of crying on that goddamned rooftop and being caught on the act by the vigilante – Red Hood. The adrenaline is fun, but the action by itself is really fucking dangerous and I’m not trying to get in the middle of something I can’t keep up with (and I know that I definitely can’t).

There’s a black car parked in the front of my building, when I arrive. This fact doesn’t mean much on itself, but as I get out of the cab, I can picture the man that stands by it – it’s a somewhat familiar face that I have seen many times on TV: the commissioner Jim Gordon.

Things were already bad on my side, but as I have previously stated, they always have the full potential to get much worse.

When the commissioner sees me approaching the front hall, he throws the cigarette that was lying in between his lips on the ground and leans off the car, turning on his side to face me.

–Miss L/N? –Gordon nods in my direction, raising his chin a little. –I am the commissioner Gordon.

–I already know that. –I nod back, not really worrying about how rude I probably sounded like. This is not a good day and I’ll give myself that. –You’re looking for me?

–Yes, I’d like to talk to you. Can we go inside?

I really want to say no. But if I did, what would happen, then? I don’t even know if I’m allowed to refuse this kind of request – or if I should. What does this man even wants to talk to me about, anyway? What have I done that is an interest of the police department? I don’t know much about laws or how exactly the police operates, but I know for sure that unless we’re involved in general assault lawsuit, they have nothing to do with newly dismissed teachers.

–Sure. –I try to shrug, still hugging the heavy box with my almost limp arms. By now, it almost feels as if the thing is about to slip and crash on the ground (along with his cigarette, which is still emanating smoke. –What is this about?

–We should probably get inside first. –Wearing a slightly sympathetic face, the commissioner insists and takes a step forward, raising his arms on my direction. –Let me help with the box. Lead the way.

I want to press further until he tells me what I want to know, but I decide to keep quiet and wait it out; I give him the box and shake my tingling hands before looking into my bag for the keys. This is the police commissioner of Gotham, not a troubled fifteen year old that needs attention and counseling. Despite my will to be in control of the situation, I recognize that right now, I kind of can’t. I’m better off stepping back a little (so that’s exactly what I do).

Neither of us say anything on our way up – which is the fourth floor of the six floor building. We come across a couple of neighbors; some of them offered him smiles, but the rest seemed a bit off about his presence. This man did arrest a lot of people and being associated to him might not always grant a good outcome; not in this city.

–You can leave it on the floor. –I instruct, once the door to my apartment is open. –Would you like something? Water, coffee, or…

–No, thank you. I’m fine.

–Ok. –I nod again and close the door behind us. His presence makes me anxious and in a rush to get done with the mysterious subject as quickly as possible, I don’t filter my hurry. –What do you want to talk about?

While the commissioner doesn’t seem necessarily pleased with my dismissive behavior, nothing on his expressions or body language manifests any kind of impatience (which is great, considering that I am not in a good mood). So I direct the man to the kitchen – I don’t want to sit on the couch with him and besides the coffee table, I don’t have a functional table on the living room. It would have taken too much space of the already limited apartment and the large kitchen counter worked just fine to me.

Jim Gordon sits on one of the stools and I circle the counter to stand in front of him (not without pausing to get a cup of water for myself first).

–Well, Miss Y/L, we know that you were on the exhibition by Diana Prince on the last Saturday. –The commissioner doesn’t leave a space to debate, which implies that he probably has been stalking me. –At some point, on the dawn of monday, one of the pieces that was part of the collection was stolen. For some reason, the cameras don’t have image of the moment it happened, which I already anticipated. What is strange, however, is that this isn’t the only image that is missing. There was a five minute flaw on all of the cameras operating on that entire section of the hall. But from the cameras that still worked, we saw you walk in and out of that hall, during the exact period in which the cameras failed.

_What the fuck._

–I was there, it’s true. –My primal instinct is to admit the truth. I know that I didn’t do anything wrong, so lying and omitting won’t help me with anything. –But I didn’t take anything.

–That’s a good start. –Gordon seems pleased with my honest answer. –Can you tell me what you did there?

 _What the fuck?_ What the fuck, what the fuck?

–I’m a history teacher; I was interested on the exhibition. My friends were talking to their dates and I wanted to check the rest of the collection, so I walked into the hall alone and I looked at the daggers.

–Of course. And did you see anyone there?

–I did. The hall was pretty empty, but I think there was a couple talking in the end of the hall; I didn’t pay attention to who they were or what they were doing. And there was this guy too, but I don’t know him. I was looking at one of the daggers and he asked me about it; I think he was trying to flirt or something. –I shrug, remembering the man that I talked to. I definitely know that he wasn’t flirting with me, but for some reason, that’s what I chose to say.

–Do you know his name?

–I didn’t ask. I just came out of a relationship and I wanted him to go away as quickly as possible.

–I understand. –He offered me a sympathetic smile, which was a weird look on his stoic face. If the commissioner really stalked me (or investigated, on legal terms), did he know about that already? –Can you tell me how this man looked like?

 _Maybe_. If I think back to it and make an effort, I could probably tell apart every single one of that man’s features, but for some reason, I don’t feel like doing it. It feels wrong, in a way, which is not reasonable at all. And collaborating with the police to put criminals in trouble ( _if_ he is a criminal) will probably fuck me up as well. This is Gotham, I know this city.

It’s a weird, wild, wicked fucking place.

–A little. I didn’t pay attention to his face; I didn’t want him to think that I was interested in any way. –I say, mildly convinced that this is, in a way, a half truth. –But he was tall, white, broad, had black hair… But I didn’t look at his face.

–Do you remember any scars or tattoos?

–No. –I shake my head, feeling suddenly anxious in a way that I wasn’t before. Am I lying to the police?

–Ok. Miss L/N, I hope you understand that I am not framing you for anything. But I need you to come to the police station with me to file a hit report and give your testimony on what happened during that night. I also have a search warrant to check your apartment for the missing piece and I’d like to do it as soon as possible; definitely today.

Now that’s fucked up – and new.

–What exactly am I supposed to do? Do I go with you, now? Do I have to take anything? –I put the cup down, as the frantic anxiety started to curse through my body like unholy electricity.

–Your documents; preferably, all of them. There’s a lot of burocracy involved on this things, so it’s better to be prepared. And you can come with me, of course; unless you choose to come to the police station on your own.

I kind of want to be alone, to be honest, but I’m not going to refuse the ride and a chance to not look guilty.

–No, of course. I’ll go with you. Let me just get my documents.

Some of them were already on my bag, but I decided to get everything; e _verything_ – even my passport, proof of residence, contract portfolio and the very recent statement of my dismissal. _Who knows_?

I was as quiet as I could possibly be during the stressful ride to the police station, but the commissioner didn’t stop talking in any minute. He told me about normal procedures to situations like that; things that he knew about the bureaucracy involved, the team that would show up later at my apartment to search for the piece and the norms that they had to follow.

Albeit seemingly stoic, Gordon gave me every piece of information I could possibly need, which was comforting enough.

I didn’t want to call my mother. I probably should, but getting her involved in anything, ever, is usually just a lot more stressful than the normal quota I can put up with – that’s to say that I’m going to deal with this on my own. Perhaps when I’m done and everything is solved, _if_ it’s solved, I’ll give her a call and offer some pieces of what happened.

The commissioner Gordon was there to record my testimony, but I didn’t say anything different than what I said back home, on the kitchen (just used a few more words). He got my signature, thanked me briefly and then left with a team to get into my house. I gave him the keys, which were appreciated – I had an extra emergency pair on my bag.

I had to file the hit report with an unknown cop, who was much sweeter and soothing than him. Perhaps, used to dealing with cases of theft and other minor currencies, rather than the things that the commissioner works with.

Once all of the burocratic bit was dealt with, I was finally liberated to go home. It was well past 7pm, almost 8pm, when I got back.

On the entry of the main hall, another police officer warned me that since my apartment was still being checked, I wasn’t allowed to come inside – only after they were done.

I sat close to the elevator, waiting it out. What a weird, fucking humiliating experience – it happened so fast that I barely had time to feel bad about being dismissed earlier. _Ah_ , how I miss the times in which my biggest problem was being fired because of my ex. Almost as if it happened earlier in the morning.

Being the suspect of stealing a middle eastern artifact from Diana Prince.

What the actual fuck?

And what item was stolen, I was not aware of – but after much thought, my mind went back to the persian khanjar I had been watching with that man; the one with poor description. Is that what happened? Did that man steal that blade? Was that the reason why he made so many questions about it? And now I was framed for a crime that he committed.

 _Fuck_.

What would I even do with a thing like that? Put it on my desk or nightstand for decor purposes? I don’t even know where to start with the illegal market. In fact, the most illegal thing I’ve ever been involved with was knowing a bunch of drug dealers when I was in high school and never snitching on any of them.

And that man… What would he do with that thing? What could possibly even be the use? I bet there is a buyer out there, but where exactly would he find them? These things aren’t that easy to trade. Who was he? A few people have tried; as a matter of a fact, you can’t break into the Gotham Museum with basic bitch levels of thievery only. That man had to know a lot about what he was doing there.

An expert, if you will.

So who the fuck was that man? And what was the thing, if not a ordinary dagger? Why that one?

Or even better – do I really want to know?


	6. broken signs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey. So... Hear me out. I wrote this long ass 7K+ chapter and then I spent literal days pondering whether I should post that monster or split it in two chapters. I asked on tumblr and nobody answered, which I guess is understandable. I ended up "spliting" it.  
> This right here is 4K+  
> so I WANT TO KNOW FROM YOU GUYS if you like/are ok with really long chapters like that or if you think it's tiring and would rather have me post the usual 4K.  
> Other than that, I hope everybody is having a nice week. I am very tired. Also. Here's the chapter!

I was so goddamn tired.

The main hall of the building had a couple of couches that smelled like mold and dust – in fact, in case you lingered your fingers through the fake brown leather, that’s exactly what would come out on your fingertips. And that’s also the very same place in which I had thrown myself onto, after realizing that the search wouldn’t end anytime soon. Despite the limited space to look at, the commissioner Gordon only came out of my apartment with his team a little after 9pm, frustrated.

Naturally, nothing was found – which is great for me and terrible to them. And Diana Prince: poor woman. I can’t even begin to imagine what kind of things she must be putting up with to deal with the aftermath of the artifact’s disappearance. If I look at myself, however, I can’t tell how I am putting up with all of the things that have been happening on my life either (things that don’t seem to be about to cease). Perhaps every single woman in Gotham is facing hard times – I am definitely an eligible example.

I had spent the entire day out, hadn’t showered or eaten anything and done nothing but deal with a problem after another. The words “miserable” and “hopeless” were the easiest ways to express my current situation.

–Thank you for your cooperativity, miss L/N. Your apartment is clean. –The commissioner says, almost sorrowful. A little stiff, the man sits on the other end of the couch and gives me a pitiful look, probably as an involuntary reflex to my actual state. –That should be it, for now; I hope you remember the recommendations from the police station. If it helps in anyway, I do believe you’re not involved on the theft, but you are going to be further investigated. If anything unusual happens, I’d like to be informed about it. Until the case is closed, I’ll be responsible for all reports and file updates regarding you.

Without saying anything else, the commissioner Gordon handed me the borrowed keys, apologized for the inconvenience, thanked me for my cooperativity once more and then offered a card for contact, in case I remembered anything else.

Short for “you’ve done nothing wrong, but I don’t know if I believe you”.

By the time they were all gone, I was almost sleeping on the couch. Starving, angry, tired, wronged and unemployed. My phone had been dead for long and I didn’t have any other mints to chew on.

What a depressing fucking day. It’s almost as if my life events are competing to see which one is the most fucked up – and the competition never ends. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to tell my mom, but I know that I have to say something. Especially considering that if I don’t get another job soon, I’ll have to move back into her apartment one way or another. And does anybody know how to tell your family and friends that the police just warned you to not leave the city, because you’re the suspect of a crime?

Stellar.

Considering all that happened, it was probably not what I actually needed, but I went for it anyways: the goddamn bar.

I only walked inside my apartment to throw my bag on the couch, just in case I got mugged and lost both my phone and documents. I only took enough money to get a couple of drinks and slid a couple of bills on my shoes, to make sure that if anyone robbed me, I’d have something to come back home safe.

Fucking Gotham.

The trauma shapes you, as foreigners eventually learn.

Stealing a glance at myself on the mirror, I stated what was expected: I looked pitiful. The sight, however, didn’t stop me from walking out of the building to mix with the rest of the human race. I’d leave that call to my mother for tomorrow – or in three days time; or whenever I start to feel a little better about all of this. Not now.

The streets were dark, empty and far too cold for my own good. You’ll hardly ever see women walking on these streets in times like this, especially not alone. To be fair, I’ve never even been to any of the bars close to my building, being fully aware of how bad they are. Even then, most of them were closed: it’s a monday night, after all. I did my fair share of walking – so worried about the odds of being approached by a thug that my mind didn’t even wander to the things that I’ve dealt with today.

Crazy ex; unemployment; investigated by the police.

After stiffly walking around on the practically empty streets, I eventually conformed to a place I had already walked by – a bar that apparently was called “Kennel”. It looked like it was about to crumble and it smelled like spilled beer and piss; dirty, disgusting and cheap.

It was something like the final warning to turn around and go back home, but I didn’t. In it’s current situation, my system needed to get dizzy in order to black out fully. With a deep breath (which I regretted, because of the strong smell), I took my eyes off the rusty, lopsided sign and walked ahead into the bar.

For such a nefarious place, it was surely filled with much more people than what it actually should. Despite being poorly illuminated, it was clear that every table of the establishment was taken and the regulars looked nothing short of shady and dangerous. Old wood floors creaked with each step and the walls, which were barely coated with plaster, were taken by mold – and a suspicious noise that came from a broken piano that was isolated in the corner, made me believe that there was a family of rats residing in there.

With that being said – I already had my two feet in, so despite how badly I wanted to, I couldn’t really turn around.

Walking ahead to sit on the counter, I ignored some of the heads that, through my peripheral vision, I could see turning to look at me. It was mostly because I’m not really capable of keeping eye contact with any of them; bear with me, this is not my natural habitat. So I kept my eyes focused on my goal – and what I initially learned was that the bartender was a big, sweaty guy with a grey beard and a bitter expression on his face.

–Good night. –I say perhaps a bit too cheery, to which the man only stares harder. I drop the smile immediately. –Can I get a martini?

The bartender stares at me for a little longer, which almost makes me correct my request, but then he eventually turns around and goes to the wall in which I can see some cups stashed. A victory.

–I wouldn’t do that if I were you. –A strange voice comes up by my side, almost making me jump.

I _might_ have. Before looking to however now stood by my side, my mind went into short circuit. I had heard that voice before, hadn’t I? My brain just couldn’t muster who and where (or when). But the curiosity got the best of me, so I turned my head and looked – and it was no one other than the museum man. Just like I remembered – tall, white, black haired and green eyed; fucking beautiful, too. There was a smirk plastered on his face, which I could now see that had some scars in it. Uninvited, he sat by my side, as if unaware of all of the shit that he got me into. Or he knew about it and just didn’t really care.

– _You_! –It’s the first thing that leaves my mouth, although I don’t really know what I meant to say with it.

–They don’t really wash these cups, you know. –He insists, tilting his head to the side and looking, I dare say, very _smug_. –And medicine still hasn’t found a cure to leptospirosis.

That sentence makes me stop – it’s probably the teacher in me speaking louder than reason (and a ton of spite).

–They _did_ find a cure to leptospirosis.

I know that for sure, but for some reason, the way he said it made me question my own words. I mean – did they? Where do I even know this from? Was it from the internet? I never once met a person who had, somehow, contracted this disease. Is it because they don’t really survive to tell the tale themselves? – Fuck, this is bullshit. You can treat fucking leptospirosis; I know that.

–I mean, if you want to take the risk. –The man shrugs and uses his amber bottle of beer to point at the bartender, who is already grasping a visibly rusty bottle of vermouth. –Scully is a great mixologist.

–Ok, I want a beer! –I call out to “Scully”, whose only response is an intelligible grumble. – _Fuck_.

I don’t even like beer. But those cups did look like they hadn’t been cleansed in a while and almost as a cue, the little squeaking noises echoing from the broken piano grew louder, which made the mysterious museum thief’s smirk only become wider.

–Smart choice.

–Who are you? –I inquire hoping for a clear, honest answer (although in all honesty, I know that I am definitely not getting one. –What’s your name?

–Why does that matter to you? –He asks back, confirming my belief that the man will not reveal his identity to me.

And with that speech, an ugly, furious, enraged energy started to course through my body as if I’ve never seen true anger before. It felt hot, vibrant and disturbing; making something absurdly violent creep upon my chest and my eyes see red in it’s rawest shade. Red, black and a deafening, metallic noise.

My life, to what I had worked so fucking hard for. I have survived through so many nights, crying because I thought that I’d get evicted – that I’d have to drop out of college because I wouldn’t have enough money to pay the tuition, or that I’d never find a job and die alone. So much that I’ve worked and fought for, all of those small victories that almost brought me to the top of the world – and within the sharp notes of a very short melody, everything was reduced to nothing.

Everything that I conquered was taken from me, despite how badly my hands were hurt from trying to hold it all together.

So many things that I’ve lost in such ridiculously short amount of time, that I barely had time to feel bad about all of them. And then this man, this _goddamned_ man, who made me an investigated suspect, has the audacity to sit by my side during my guilt trip drinking and says that it doesn’t matter _to_ _me_ who he is.

 _Ah, rage_. Never felt so hot and never felt so bright.

I was about to rise from my stool to mindlessly jump on that man’s neck, regardless of fully acknowledging my inability to go through and through with that fight. Judging by his size (and those damned arms), the man could knock me out in a bitch slap – but I’d commit to it.

However, before I got my feet on the ground, a distinct sound of glass hitting wood disturbed my lunacy and I froze on the spot – _my beer_. Scully, the bartender, had just placed the bottle right in front of me, in perfect timing.

 _Right_. The action shook my off my momentum and I quickly gave up my previous idea. I mean – _what the actual fuck_? What exactly made me think that I could get into a fight with this man? What kind of delirium slipped into my brain? Thinking back to it, I haven’t gotten anything other than sips of water into my organism since breakfast; maybe I am reasonably insane.

–You stole that thing. –I point out, surprisingly much more composed than what I felt like being. –On the museum.

–It’s not very polite of you to walk around accusing people. –The thief furrows his brows in false concern, barely masking the smile that is fighting to break out on his beautiful face. –You don’t know that.

–Oh, I know that. –I nod frantically, feeling the anger bubbling up my throat again. In desperate need to use my hands for something, I choose to reach for the bottle of beer instead of trying to slap him. God knows how badly I want to. –I can walk around accusing whoever I want, because that’s exactly what’s happening to me. They’re investigating me because of you. I’m a suspect!

Suddenly, I became hyper aware of the words that left my mouth. Had I said it too loud? Looking around and seeing everyone focused on their own lives, I told myself that for now, I hadn’t. But if I don’t start measuring my words and tone, every single person on the entire street will be able to hear my thoughts and secrets.

For his credit, the man’s countenance changed to something more serious, as he took my words in – and maybe, just _maybe_ , he also noticed my willingness to _try_ to beat him up; the keyword being “try”.

–It’s not serious. –The man shakes his head, bringing the bottle to his lips.

–It is! They turned my apartment inside out looking for that thing. They recorded my testimony and made me sign so many fucking papers that I almost forgot how to write my own name. –I state in an accusatory tone, grasping the bottle harder. –The commissary is investigating me personally and he said…

–Jim Gordon? –He interrupts me, picking out the “commissary” bit.

Why, though? I mean – if this man is a bandit, he’s probably not acquaintances with the commissary. That is the only plausible logic, isn’t it? And listen: Jim fucking Gordon has made my day even worse than what it actually was, but I don’t want to fuck him up. Come on, the commissary isn’t evil. He didn’t frame me for theft (this motherfucker here did).

But as expected, my lack of response worked as good as saying “oh, yes, that one”.

–Why does it matter?

–Nothing. You’re not in trouble. –He tilts his head again, this time to the bottle on my hands. –Go ahead. Before it gets warm.

–What do you mean with that? –I ignore his tip, fearing that he might do something to the commissioner. The thief keeps quiet, taking another sip of his beer as if I didn’t say anything. –Hey! Answer me.

–I didn’t really mean anything. You’re not in trouble; I got it. –He says with a shrug, dismissively. Looking to the bottle on his right hand, I see that it’s almost empty. How long has he been here for? Is this his first bottle; the fifth?

–What is _it_ that you got? –I press, trying to make him say the words out loud.

What are the odds that I will end this night making a call to Jim Gordon?

–Don’t worry about it. All you have to do is keep quiet and I’ll take care of it, if I have to. –He says and brings his bottle to cheer on mine, which still hasn’t moved from it’s place on my thigh.

–And how does that work? Doing something even more illegal?

The question makes a wide smile break free on his face again, which is just as clear as saying “yes, that is exactly what I will do”.

–I guarantee that you won’t get caught up on anything. If it makes you feel better, if they make you say anything, later on, you can say that a man threatened you to stay quiet. It’s Gotham, they will believe you without thinking twice.

–So _you_ _are_ getting me involved on your bullshit.

–No, I am not. I am giving the freedom to say something, after I’m done. If you want to. For now, you can do your part by pretending that this never happened. –The man shrugs again and then reaches for his pocket. After a couple of beats, he hands over a little piece of folded paper, which probably was smaller than an inch. –Just do me a favor. If you get in actual trouble, you can call this number. I’ll solve it.

 _“Don’t accept things from strangers!”_ – A voice that sounds weirdly familiar with my mother’s screams in my mind. But in unison, so does a voice that tells me that I probably should pick it up. It’s just like he said: if I ever get in trouble for doing any of this, I can say that I was threatened and forced to do it. Right? Can anybody contest?

After a little hesitation, I eventually reach out to take the paper off his hands and into my possession.

–Is it a burner phone? –I take a guess, examining the folded form. The digits that I’d probably never call were probably hidden in there.

–What do you think? –He smiles again, nodding at me and then getting a wallet out of his pocket. –Scully, I’m leaving.

–Pay what you owe me. –The big man grumbles, without looking at either of us. He was focused on the practically static TV, which barely showed the image of a soccer game.

–Of course, buddy. The girl’s beer is on me. –The man stated and got up to leave, drinking the remains of the bottle. I almost protested the offer, but he interrupted my thoughts before I could barely form them. –I owe you some.

Fuck yeah he does.

I don’t argue any further with that logic, but I can’t let him go without clearing out something that is still bothering me.

–You’re not going to tell me your name? –I call out, before he turns away.

–Did you tell me yours? –He pushes back, still wearing that smug smirk that made something weird tingle on my body.

It was probably the desire to jump on his neck and shake it violently until his brain became an omelet.

–You didn’t ask. –I stare a little harder, hoping that my challenge comes through. His response is to come much closer to me, almost entering my personal space; green eyes intensely reflected the dare that I could feel emanating from my own.

–That’s because I already know the answer, Y/N. –He points out, tilting his head to the side and smiling again.

So… He _does_ know my name. What is that even supposed to mean? When did this man learn my name? Did he already know that, before approaching me on the museum? Did he stalk me after our encounter? When the hell did any of this happen, and more importantly: why?!

–What am I supposed to call you? –I press again, losing some of my confidence.

The nameless man doesn’t answer immediately, which makes me think that whatever comes out of his mouth will probably be a lie. While I wait for an answer, we look into each other’s eyes – and with each second that passes by, electric waves start pulsing through my body and my heartbeats start slamming on my chest much harder than before. Those were terms that I have only ever heard of in books and was surprised to actually experience (because it did feel just like that, no better words to describe it).

I really have no idea of what am I doing with life anymore.

–You can call me J. –He reasons with me, in a low voice; almost secretive.

Does anybody in here know his actual name? Is “J” the initial of an actual name or is it just the first letter he thought of? J or Jay?

– _J_. –I test on my tongue, in what I hope to be a disbelieving tone; something to make him think about it again and perhaps, give me a proper answer. –J?

–J. –He repeats, inflexible. –I have to go now.

I don’t argue. _J_ turns to leave and he is gone in a matter of seconds, without looking back. The beer in my hand is hardly cold anymore and the air, suddenly much warmer, makes me regret not leaving my jacket back home along with the bag. If it wasn’t for Scully picking up the money that he left on the counter, I’d probably tell myself that this entire interaction had been a hallucination.

What does J even means, _if_ it means? Is “J” for Jack? James? Jordan? Jacob? Jake? John? Jeremy? Josh? I don’t know; Jesus?

What the hell am I even doing?

A little lost, I looked back to my hands, which were holding the phone number and the bottle of beer each. I didn’t have my bag and the little piece of paper would definitely get lost on my pockets – I didn’t have a fancy reliquary or a wallet with me, either. By the lack of better option, I bent a little and stuck the paper on my shoe, all the way to the sole.

Then, back to the other hand: the bottle. It’s been a while now: the beer might as well be an aquarium. Regardless of that, purely out of spite, I breathed in and took the bottle to my lips, resigned.

I finished the bottle quietly, stealing glances at the static TV every once in a while. The more I paid attention to it, the more I could make out the blurred forms of the players. I could picture men dressed in what I assumed to be white and red uniforms, clashing against each other and shots of the soccer ball rolling around every now and then in a green camp. It was impossible to understand the game solely by the image that the old TV emitted, but allied to the creaked sound of the game narrator, it was quite the experience.

I asked Scully for another bottle. The beer was bad, but drinking it cold, it became a lot better. We kept watching the game and by the time the first time was over, I was already asking for my third bottle.

Despite the sullen aura, Scully was a strangely good company. He didn’t small talk; didn’t talk about shit I don’t care about. The bartender just stood there, leaning on the counter a couple feet away from me and every now and then complained about the game or the about the other clients (I also think I heard him shout something to the rats on the piano). Scully was a really good company, actually. A breath of fresh air, if you will.

The fourth bottle came. Regardless of not knowing any of the teams, we were both very invested on the game, which was tied.

By chance, after what was my fifth or sixth bottle, my eyes wandered to the plastic watch hung on the wall closest to me. My brain took a while to muster what pointer meant what, but after a couple of beats, I recognized that it was well past 11pm.

– _Fuck_. –I whispered, remembering that I’d have to walk myself home, all alone in the lovely streets of Gotham.

–What? –The big man grumbled, without turning to look at me.

–Scully, I need to leave. –I call out, getting up and checking my pockets to see if my money is still there. Who knows if the artifact thief is also a pickpocket? But my money was still in place, as I happily learned. –What do I owe you?

–Make it twenty. –Scully says, glancing over his shoulder.

I don’t question his logic, but I leave thirty. Scully was a great friend.

When I left the bar, the street was even darker and emptier than before. Empty to the point of being creepy and suddenly, it became very cold again. The temperature made goosebumps rise on my skin and a primal, subconscious feeling told me to get back inside – but I didn’t.

I had to get home. I needed to eat and shower and lay the fuck down to finally sleep; which is another thing I definitely needed.

 _Hm_. Not so fast – not in Gotham.

The bar was good twenty minutes away from my building. Quite the walk, especially when you’re drunk and nervous – and I recognize that yes, this was such a dumb fucking decision I made. I should have stayed home and wallowed in self pity in the safety of my own bed.

Despite my best efforts to lurk on the corners to blend in with the other creeps, I naturally stood out. And for the credit, before it happened, I was already fully aware of the rapid steps approaching me from behind – a thief.

Come on, I live in Gotham. Being robbed around here certainly isn’t new and definitely not surprising. Of course, it doesn’t become any less dangerous and frustrating with the time, but it sure is a little boring.

–Hey, pretty thing, wait a little. –A masculine voice commands, getting closer to me.

I know the drill. Stay quiet, give away everything you have without putting up a fight and then run the fuck away as soon as possible. So I stop walking with a sigh, trying to think back to how much money I have left on my pockets; twenty, thirty dollars? I know that I definitely have something close to thirty hidden on my shoes. I’m not wearing a watch or any type of jewelry; although to untrained eyes, my discrete steel earrings might come across as silver.

The faster he comes, the faster I’ll be able to go home.

–Give me your phone. –The man finally reaches me, grasping my arm and turning me around abruptly. –Where’s the phone?

The man I see had the pitiful potential to be beautiful. Like those attractive, gruff looking hipsters that only drink artisanal beer and mostly wear colorful button shirts and man buns. But the look was ruined by the almost comic, cliché _thief attire_ , which included a green beanie and a black turtleneck.

–I don’t have a phone. –I shake my head, remembering to divert my eyes from his face.

I know from experience that most thieves don’t like to be stared at.

–Yeah, you do. Stop playing and hand over the motherfucking phone, bitch. –The guy pressed again, tightening the hold around my arm (which will definitely leave an ugly mark).

–I don’t have a phone with me. I just have a couple of bills. –I shrug and raise my arms to the sides to show my pockets, which are clearly empty).

To be fair, my heart started to beat a little wild. That _might_ be because I _also_ happen to know that thieves have a tendency to get violent if they don’t find what they’re looking for; especially when they’re on drugs. Although, judging poorly from what I’ve seen, that man’s skin, hair and teeth are nothing like what drug addicts usually look like.

The man didn’t argue again, but he started to pat my pockets roughly and then lingered his hands on my waist line – I tell myself that it’s fine, I’ve been here before. He also pats my sides, where my bra is.

I’m not going to lie: all of this poking makes me really fucking uncomfortable. It’s impossible to not tense and flinch, or even contain the disgust on my face.

–Do you like that? –The thief asks as he towers over me, wearing a nefarious grin and grasping my sides with both hands.

It’s impossible for me to keep calm after that. My primal instinct makes me step back, but doing so, my body hits a wall harshly. The man only presses further, moving his fingers to pull my shirt up – and I do try to push him away, but that’s a very big man and my position isn’t practical at all.

–Did you get this one? –Another strange, masculine voice calls out from what could only be the other side of the street, followed by the sounds of steps approaching us.

Within seconds, there’s another hand pushing me around.

So I scream.


	7. stay safe (or try)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Yes, this is a little shorter than usual, but it's the conclusion to that last chapter. I'll have a busy week, so it might actually take a while for me to post again (or maybe it won't take longer than a week. I don't know. These things are unpredictable). Either way, here it is. I hope you guys like it!

It echoes.

My scream is so viscerally guttural that there is no way that the entire street didn’t hear me. The problem resides, however, on their willingness to get out of their houses to come help me out – usually in Gotham, those who aren’t criminals, are bigots or cowards. While I like to believe I’m neither, the coward bit fits a little better as a personal description. Or criminal: the daily events might show just that.

The screaming doesn’t scare the men away. In fact, it just makes them act a lot more violent, shaking my shoulders and shoving my body against the wall repeatedly. I can only be hit in the head for too long until my senses start to give out: my system is quickly taken by nausea and soon enough, my eyes barely process the image that they see.

Everything happens very fast. So ridiculously fast that I reprehend myself for ever judging people who don’t know how to react in situations like this – seeing that I couldn’t, either. Being defenseless if something that I am definitely unused to – despite the things that I have done and faced, I was never involved in anything so violent.

In no better definition, as the world was about to go black, all of that weight was suddenly lifted off me. I didn’t reason why and despite my desire to do so, I didn’t run away, because my legs gave out immediately. Crouching down on the floor, as my stomach turned and I puked all the beer that I had drank not even thirty minutes ago, I heard the terrible sounds of what could have only been a fight right ahead of me.

Did someone get those men off me?

Right: the vigilantes of Gotham. Was it one of them or just a civilian? As in a very brave civilian who decided to walk out of their comfort to help out a drunk girl who was being assaulted in a dark alley? Ha! No fucking way – not in Gotham. It was either a vigilante or another thug these guys had _beef_ with.

Then, there were two gunshots – so it was probably the latter.

I couldn’t look up to check it out: every time I raised my head to watch, the nausea spiked again and I went back to throwing up. It went on and on like that until my body couldn’t force anything else out of it’s system and the noises ceased. Everything was quiet for a while, and the world spun once more after I raised my head to look at the scene around me.

–Are you ok?

It was Red Hood.

I immediately recognized the somewhat muffled voice that I’ve heard before, on the rooftop, but also the clothes (which are pretty unmistakable, if you will). He stood right in front of me, looking down – and behind the two of us, two limp bodies were piled close to a trashcan.

–You killed them? –I manage to say in a shaky whisper that would certainly be missed by untrained ears.

– _Nah_. They’re just sleeping. –The vigilante motioned his hand around, still holding the gun that shot them.

I looked again: the two men didn’t look like they were moving at all. Despite my hazy mind, I did my best to focus on their chests and with that, I could say that _maybe_ I saw it minimally moving up and down. It could have been a mistake, though, which is why I don’t vow for my words.

–Did you kill them? –I ask again, just to be sure.

Is it because I am drunk? And how could I possibly be, after all of this?

–They’re not dead. –Red Hood stated again, tucking the gun on the right holster and crouching down in front of me. –What about you? You’re fine?

I’m not sure of how to answer to this. Whenever I’m asked this somewhat rare question, my usual reflex is to say something positive, but I can tell that I am not fine. I am _so_ not fine. In fact, I’ve never been worse than this: my entire body hurts, my head is spinning, my stomach is still turning, my throat is burning, I can’t feel my legs and I definitely feel like crying.

I _might_ be.

So I can’t really answer to that. The words get stuck on my throat and I know that if I force them out, I’ll probably end up sobbing along with them.

And god, haven’t I done enough of crying recently?

I make an effort to breathe in and calm myself down, and doing so, I finally notice a couple of indications that yes, I _might_ have been crying. Looking ahead of me, I find the vigilante tilting his head to the side, watching me attentively – still waiting for an answer, although I think it is pretty self-explanatory.

Despite the ache on my neck and on the back of my head, I try to move it slightly. “ _No”._ With that, Red Hood nods at me, understanding.

–Can you get up? –He asks, leaning back to give me more space (and for some unknown reason, I don’t really like that).

–Can you help me? –I ask back, trying to reach out for him with my left hand.

Red Hood leaned in again and hooked both gloved hands under my armpits, bringing me up with ease. Once I stood up, he clasped my face delicately, turned it to the side and then inspected the back of my head. The vigilante moved his left hand from my face and brought it to touch my nape, tentatively – the action shot an immediate wave of pain on the region. Probably noticing my discomfort, he moved his fingers quickly and pulled me away from the wall.

–It’s not bleeding, but it’s going to swell. You should probably have someone check it out on the hospital. –He advises, still holding both my shoulders to keep me in place.

Without support, I’d probably slip back into the ground.

Ok, listen: my desperate want to go back home is definitely a driving force, but I also don’t want to waste any money on a hospital bill. I need to spare money, in order to not run out of it. I still have 6 months of college tuition to pay ahead of me; there’s no way I can throw dollars around just because my head got a little messed up. I’m pretty sure that I have ice back home and a couple of painkillers. As a bonus, I also don’t need to get up early in the morning, since I no longer have a job.

–No, no hospitals. I just want to go home. –I deny, shaking my head again. The action sends in another shot of pain, that this time flows down my neck and into my back. I have to bite back a groan and try not to grimace too hard. –I need to get back home.

I move my head to the side, stealing a glance to the men pilled besides the trash can. From this position, I could see a bleeding wound in one of the legs; the other one, was located in an arm (in the tangled mess Red Hood made of them, I couldn’t figure out which limb belonged to who). It was both disgusting and horrifying.

You see, there are stories of people who have seen Red Hood with nothing but a domino mask on. During all of my experiences, however, his face was completely covered by the metallic red helmet. I can’t see a single inch of his face and it’s hard to define what his body language means, but as far as I can tell, he seems… Relaxed. As if this entire situation is completely ordinary (and it probably is).

–I’ll help you there; it doesn’t look like you should walk alone. –He offers, releasing my shoulders and moving one of his hands to hook it around my left arm. –We’re close already.

I really should have said “no”, shouldn’t I? Accepting help from an extremely shady and unknown man who I can’t fight with, identify or trace back to, sounds a lot like the exact thing that I should not, by any means, do. Trust me; I am not a naïve girl. I’ve read enough fairy tales and watched enough of the news to know what happens to little girls who, for some reason, get out of their path or trust strangers.

Spoiler alert: it’s nothing pretty.

There’s a whole channel on TV dedicated to murders and a good number of them have something to do with a naïve person trusting somebody that they definitely shouldn’t – and as expected, they end up violated, brutalized and horribly killed.

Red Hood, a wanted vigilante, suspect of causing and engaging on countless of violent deaths and the torture of hundreds, was most definitely the last person I should ever trust. The gloved hand he used to give me support was still wet with the blood that he just beat out of those two thugs. He smelled like gunpowder, smoke and blood – and something earthy, like sandalwood, but that’s beside the point.

I should have said “no”. However…

–You _can_ do that?

–It’s fine, we’re close. Let’s go; the fastest we leave, the fastest you’ll be home. –The vigilante shrugs and doesn’t wait for another answer, before he starts walking ahead, pulling me by the arm.

While it’s not the nicest or the most comfortable way, it is a lot more helpful than what I’d like to admit. His steady pace urges my legs to work and move forward, as they were still a little numb from all of the adrenaline that washed over me. It’s constant, it’s solid; it’s good.

Soothing, even.

So we walk; or he pulls me along, if you will. Silently, as if this is something that we’re both used to. I mean, he might be – Gotham is a weird place with even weirder residents and this man, this _vigilante_ , is certainly in contact with the core of it. This is not usual for me, though. I have made so many efforts to hold myself together throughout the years that it is shameful that I even got close to a situation like this. It surely is shameful that every single time Red Hood has seen me, I was in a deplorable, pitiful condition.

He must think that I am the most miserable human being to ever craw on the nasty surface of Gotham – which is to say something.

–I swear that I’m not this much of a mess. –I try to look at him, in the urge to say something about it.

–I’m not judging. –Red Hood shrugs, in a tone so low that I can barely hear it. Still looking forward: unaffected by my presence.

Am I drunk? Is it possible that I am drunk right now? Some people can’t tell when they’re drunk; maybe I’m part of this demographic. People aren’t taken seriously when they’re drunk. But it doesn’t sound right – despite the pain and nausea, I feel as conscious as I could possibly be. So why is my mind wandering like this? Why is my tongue fighting against me to say words that I know I shouldn’t really say?

–And all of these times… You know… Were they a lot of coincidences or are you just following me?

Red Hood finally turns his head to look at me, and as I look into the bright LED lights that come from his eyes, I immediately regret the words that left my mouth. I should probably stop assuming that everybody is going to be ok with my nosy ramblings – like for example Red Hood, a wanted criminal who just shot two guys for no other reason than wanting to.

Giving me no answer, he faces forward again, as if I had never asked anything (and in a way, I was thankful for it). The air suddenly seemed even colder than before and goosebumps rose all over my body again.

I probably should have stayed quiet; I don’t even know what I expected him to say, anyway. It was probably just my mind malfunctioning. Maybe I _am_ drunk – I mean, am I? I don’t feel drunk; I just feel pain and a headache that doesn’t seem to fade.

We really were close to my apartment. The rest of the walk didn’t take longer than 5 minutes and I was ruefully quiet during the whole time (mentally beating myself up, relentlessly). Once we stood on the front of the building, he waited as I fumbled with my pockets, looking for my keys. On the dark, it also took me a while to get it into the keyhole and unlock the door, but I eventually did it.

I pushed the door ahead of me and stepped in, still keeping my eyes on him – unsure of what to say. I should probably thank him; did I do it already? I can’t remember. Yeah, _maybe_ I am drunk.

–I think I already said this, but I’m not this much of a mess. Life just has been harder lately. –I say and move back in his direction, leaning my face on the cold, metal door. Red Hood is still motionless, stoic, but I don’t let that stop me (it might be the alcohol). –Ok, pretend you never heard me say anything. I still didn’t process what happened, but I guess that when I do, I’ll feel terrible about everything. Thanks for helping me out and bringing me home.

–Don’t thank me for anything. –The vigilante says, in a dark tone.

–I definitely should. –I sigh, thinking back to the earlier events. _Fuck_. –Don’t be so nice on me. I’m being investigated by the police, so unless I want to be even more of a suspect, I’ll have to give them a call and talk about what happened tonight. I really don’t want to get arrested.

I honestly waited for a negative reaction to my words, but he laughed. Slightly and almost inaudible, but I heard it and I definitely saw his chest move.

–Sure, call the cops. Just give me a five minute advantage. –He proposes, in a playful tone.

–Are you serious? –I manage to say, in complete disbelief of his words. Are they sarcastic? I sincerely can’t tell. The helmet made it impossible to understand anything besides the very rare things that left his mouth.

–I _am_ serious. It’s fine, call the cops. –He nods, stepping away from me and crossing his arms. –They’re going to be after me anyway, so it’s good to have a headstart.

–Are you serious? –I repeat, still unable to believe him.

–Go inside and don’t forget to lock the doors. –The vigilante ignores me and points so the building behind my back. –And put ice on that thing.

Red Hood is dismissing me, as clear as he could possibly be. This city is restless: he probably has much more to deal with. What are the latest bizarre stunts that the citizens of Gotham are pulling up? Exploding a hospital? Stealing a bank? Mass murder? Doomsday? Who the fuck knows?

–Of course. Thank you. –I sigh again and turn around to close the metal door, doing my best to keep my eyes off him. –Stay safe.

Which is something really dumb to say. I know it the second it leaves my mouth, but at that point, it was too late to take it back. In Gotham, how safe could he possibly stay, anyway? You know: with the lunatics, clowns, explosions, bandits, murderers, aliens and monsters? The constant “beginning of Doomsday” (which is something that happens every once in a while, around here)? And also because I have absolutely no business being nosy on what must be his already complicated life.

Whoever Red Hood is.

Cringing mentally, I raise my arm to grasp the grid and move it into the doorstep, but I hear something that makes me stop.

– _Sometimes_.

It almost gets lost in the wind. For some reason, though, my ears pick the word up and I can’t let myself close the door after that.

–What?

–Sometimes it’s a coincidence. –He finishes, with no more explanation.

I didn’t answer to that. In part because it took me a while to understand what he meant, but also because once I did, I didn’t know if there was anything I could possibly say back. So I just stood there, watching him leave – across the street and off into the dark alleys in which my eyes couldn’t really follow.

_Sometimes it’s a coincidence, but sometimes I’m following you._

With nothing else to do, I finally forced myself to get inside.

The first thing I did after turning the lights on was to look for my phone. I had forgotten about it, but it was dead (it had been, for hours). But there was no hurry – we were definitely within his five minute headstart. It was probably dumb, but I lazily decided to follow my word to the vigilante.

Walking away from where my phone had been thrown on the couch, my body started to heat up from the walk that I had made a couple of minutes ago. Because of that, I showered first: cold and slow, painful and much needed. I dressed something comfortable to sleep, heated something to eat and then deleted all of the alarms on my phone, as soon as it was turned on. Only then, perfectly nested on the couch, I made the inevitable call.

_“–It’s Jim Gordon, the commissary of police…”_

It was impossible to contain the sigh of discontentment that escaped my lips. Lying down on my side, I take the bag of ice to the back of my head, hissing with all of the reactions that the motion caused on my body.

_“–Yeah, hi. This is Y/N L/N... Huh, so…I think you should probably hear about this...”_


	8. FIND HER

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M SO SORRY! I know that it's been a while, but I'm back, so I hope that's ok.  
> If only you guys knew how many times I complained to my friends about how guilty I felt for not posting soon enough, I think you guys would pitty me.  
> Also. After the movies, I can only imagine Diana Prince as Gal Gadot, so right here, Diana has brown eyes. I had a couple more observations to make, but I totally forgot them.  
> It's nice to be back. I hope you guys like it!

The first thing that crosses my mind in the morning is that the room is too bright.

Instinctively, I turn around and try to bring the blankets higher to cover my head – the action makes pain shot from the back of my head and down my spine. Flinching away from the pillow, I finally noticed how my muscles were all sore and how bad of a headache I had. Pounding and relentless, all I did was drop my body back on the bed and press my face against the cool mattress.

I stayed there for a whole hour before my hand found my phone in between the sheets. It was bright, too, but I made out the numbers that marked the hours as somewhere past 2pm.

Despite the number of times that I told him that it was not needed, Jim Gordon actually drove all the way to my apartment in the middle of the night. I didn’t change from my pajamas and when he arrived back to my apartment, his eyes went immediately to the purple marks that were swelling all over my arms. There was a brief discussion about going to the precinct to do a hit report and a body offense exam, but I managed to convince him to leave me alone. Then, the commissioner sat with me on the couch and asked me to go back to what happened during the night.

I said what was to be said: I walked out of the bar and got jumped by two strangers, until the vigilante Rod Hood came out of nowhere and shot them. The commissary told me that he had sent two cops to check the alley and they had found and arrested the two of them (although they were going to be taken to the hospital first).

Gordon asked about the bar – the Kennel. He wanted to know if something had happened there; if I had noticed anything going on out of the order. My answer rolled out of my tongue so easily that it could have been the truth – I told him that I sat there, drank beer, watched the game for a couple of hours and then left. I hadn’t talked to anyone besides the barman. It was pretty calm, but it started to get late and I left.

To be fair, I don’t know why I did any of that. For all I know, the man – the _J_ , might have been behind what happened to me. Maybe he told someone to roughen me up, who knows? For some reason, though, I didn’t say anything about him (again). Not that I cared at all about our deal, but for some reason, I decided to trust the stranger.

There was something there – although I don’t really know what.

The commissary also pestered me to go to the hospital to check my head, but I denied. It was late, I was tired and didn’t want to waste any money to have a doctor prescribe me a couple of painkillers that I already had on my bathroom.

Jim Gordon left me to deal with the mess that he and his team had made of my apartment, but I didn’t deal with it either. Beyond exhausted, I simply marched to the bedroom and pushed things around so I could find space in bed to lie down and sleep.

Waking up to the ugliest headache that I’ve ever had in my entire life, I regretted not listening to both the vigilante and the commissary. I probably should have found a professional to check it out – some people do die because of things arising from blows to the head, don’t they? Another thing is that they’re not supposed to sleep after.

I guess that I did two things wrong.

And the third, was the conscious decision to take two painkillers at once and then move to clean the apartment. It was horrible and I hated it, but it needed to be done and lying down on my own sadness wasn’t going to cut it.

During the process, I told myself one thing: that I’d go find a doctor if my head still pounded like that, by the time I was done cleaning the apartment. But with that being said, I kept going on and by the time it was done, the pain wasn’t that bad anymore. To help myself feel better, I took a long shower and dressed something warm and soft; then, I had to restrain myself from taking a third painkiller.

Sitting on the couch, the silence that used to be so calming and comforting fell down on me as a crushing and suffocating force. Anxious about being alone, having my sighs echoing in between the four walls of the living room, I forced myself to get up and leave the apartment, getting my bag on my way out.

Dinner. Maybe not in a restaurant, but I could definitely walk into café and find myself something to eat, along with coffee and the soothing presence of loud strangers. It couldn’t possibly be that bad of an idea, right?

I didn’t hail a cab, remembering a story or two about walks being therapeutic and soothing to certain types of pain. It wasn’t so dark when I left and the street was much fuller this time, than what it was yesterday.

I ended up getting into a café that I have been to before, on the main avenue. The place was full, but I easily found a two seat table on the corner. The waitress who came to me wasn’t on her best mood, but to be fair, in this goddamned city, anybody is?

My order, on the other hand, didn’t arrive as quickly. I had to wait for a while, getting easily bored and taking my phone out to entertain myself. As the minutes passed by, I got distracted to the point of not noticing someone approaching me, until I finally caught the sight of a delicate hand moving the chair in front of me, through my peripheral vision.

Looking up, my brain barely registered the image that my eyes were seeing, as they were making up a beautiful woman, with silky hair and astonishing brown eyes.

It was Diana fucking Prince, on the flesh.

Then, after it finally processed the information, I found myself completely speechless in front of her. My mouth wasn’t capable of forming a single “hi”. The woman, on the other hand, didn’t appear to have a similar problem. On her face, there was a warm expression that could have been directed to a close friend, who has known me for a long time.

My initial thought was that she mistook me for another person; maybe an actual friend of hers. I had no idea. Still, my mouth couldn’t manage to force any words out.

–You are Y/N L/N, aren’t you? –She asked, sitting down in front of me.

Diana Prince _did_ just say my actual name out loud. She meant to talk to me, after all. Why, though? What was the possible connection, if…

_Ah, fuck._

The only connection this woman and I have is the fact that I’m being investigated for the theft of an artifact that was under her watch.

–Yes. Yes, that’s me. –I nod nervously, choking out the words.

–I’m sorry for the disturbance. –She says, still smiling sweetly at me. –I’m Diana Prince.

Wearing nice pants, a white dress shirt and barely any makeup but a red lip on her face, it seemed that the woman had just walked out of her job. She looked much more classy and composed than what I ever had, despite my best efforts. And she is dealing with a lot, too.

–Of course. I know you, Diana.

–I guess this spares me a couple of words. –Diana tilts her head to the side, gesturing elegantly to the waitress, who was already rushing to her. –It’s nice to meet you, Y/N.

–Ma’am? –The girl smiled, clearly nervous to be in front of her.

I wonder if everybody in this city knows Diana Prince (which is definitely a possibility) or if it’s just the aura of power that irradiates from her.

–Black coffee, small. That’s all. –She waves to the waitress, who leaves immediately to obviously go get her order as fast as possible. Diverting her eyes from the girl, Diana looked back to me. –I wanted to talk to you and it’s great that we came across like that.

Like in that other time, I couldn’t possibly contain the sigh of exhaustion that left my lips. As a response to that, Diana’s lips curved into a beautiful comprehensive smile.

I just don’t know why she’d look at me like that. I know for sure that I didn’t fuck with her, but she doesn’t know that. She’s either an incredibly good person or just a really good viper. That’s yet to be decided.

–Did they tell you that I’m being investigated? –I ask, leaning back on the soft chair.

–They did. Naturally, there are a lot of things involved in these types of situations. That’s not the usual process, but the commissary is informing me of all of the progress in this investigation. So yes, I was informed of what they saw in the cameras, of your testimony and the search. That must have been quite the day for you.

–Yeah, it was a lot of fun. –I shrug, trying to restrain myself from crossing my arms. I don’t want to look rude, when she has been very nice and composed. –Guess you’ve had a fun day too.

–It’s the job. I have to deal with it. –She sighs, holding her hands on top of the table. Diana seemed, for once, to be as tired as I was. –I’m thankful for your comprehension, Y/N. I can’t even begin to imagine how stressful this must have been, but I’d like you to know that we do believe in your innocence.

–Well, I…

–Here’s your coffee. –The girl interrupted me, placing the small cup in front of Diana. Then she turned to me, seeming to fight to keep the smile going. –Yours is still to come.

–Sure. –I tried to smile, but the waitress left before she could see it. –So... I’m fine. This sucks for the two of us, you don’t have to worry about me. I bet you already have enough to deal with.

It seemed like she wanted to say something about it. I guess that it was either the way her lips moved or the strange air that hung around us. Her eyes looked into me as if they were seeing something else; as if there was something magical about them. One way or another, by the time she spoke again, I had the impression that it was not at all what she was going to say on that first time.

–Thank you.

–You really don’t have to. –Forgetting about the swelling, I shook my head no. I tried not to flinch, but the grimace that surfaced on my face was inevitable. It didn’t hurt as bad as it did earlier, but fuck, it still hurt.

–Is everything alright? –Diana tilted her head, leaning forward.

–Gotham thugs. –I said, watching as she almost comically flinched away from my answer. –I told you yesterday was fun.

–Did they hurt you? –She inquires, furrowing her beautiful brows.

Concerned.

–It’s not serious. –I wave her off, but she insists on the subject.

I guess that Diana isn’t used to hear about this type of thing. I mean, did she ever get mugged? Gotham is a dangerous place, but it manages to be less dangerous for the rich folks.

–Did you go to the police?

“The police came to me”, I want to say. But I’m not going to do that, because I don’t want to extend this conversation. To be fair, I just want to be done with it. Diana Prince has been nothing but sweet to me, but my usual orc self just wants to relax for a moment. I want to eat something and then go home to sleep, not to discuss the odds of being a criminal with the woman who I supposedly stole from.

And fuck, I also need to start looking for another job.

–I did. Everything is ok. As I said, you don’t have to worry about me, I’m totally fine. I appreciate your concern, though.

Diana opened her mouth to say something, but her phone started playing and she immediately picked it up. I tried not to pay attention to the conversation; but I could tell that it had something to do with her job. With that, I spotted the waitress walking back to the table, coming with what I supposed to be my coffee and my omelet.

Finally.

–I’m afraid I have to leave. We didn’t talk for a long time, but I’m happy that we got to talk at all. –She said, tucking the phone back on her purse, seemingly rushed.

–The coffee is on me. –I wave her off, before she picks out a wallet. –It was nice to meet you, Diana.

–Equally, Y/N. Here: this is my number. I know that this whole thing, with the investigation, can get a little complicated. You can contact me, if you need help with something.

Diana handed me a little business card, before getting up to leave. She walked out without waiting for an answer.

What is it with mysterious people and leaving dramatically? I’m under the impression that I’ve been on this position many times before.

But this is a kind of stressful discussion I don’t want to have with myself right now. I barely ate anything today and if I go any longer without food, my body will probably collapse on the next step I take – and then I’ll have to explain to my mom, from an hospital bed, that I haven’t been eating right because I was cheated on by my fiancé, fired from my job, beaten up by two thugs in a dark alley and that I’m being investigated by the police.

I’m not even sure of how to start this conversation.

So I just pretended I didn’t have this issue to worry about and started eating. I wanted to get home early, this time: yesterday’s mistakes were enough for the week.

Red Hood won’t always be there, will he?

+

There’s something disturbing about the yellowish glow of the streetlamps – they usually made something unsettling creep upon his mind.

Jason was a grown man. He wasn’t scared of the dark and much less of the low-lives, but there was something about those lights that could take him back to his childhood. A time of being cruelly nurtured into becoming one of the thugs that now, he fights against. And for what is worth, he did spend a ridiculous amount of time on the streets of Gotham.

It was a little after 8 pm; relatively early to be out. The city was somewhat calm and the bat was out with his two younger brats – the three adrenaline junkies would probably handle everything just fine, wherever they were. To be fair, Jason had only gotten out to patrol because staying home with his thoughts was starting to get unbearable.

–What are you doing?

Perhaps, Dick was the only person capable of sneaking up on him like that. It was definitely unnerving, but it did get boring after a while – he no longer felt the urge to jump like a cat and point a gun at him. Annoyed, Jason turned around to be met with the sight of his older brother, standing tall as Nightwing.

–I thought you had left on sunday.

–Tomorrow, early in the morning. –Dick corrected, coming forward to stand on the balcony by his side. –Are you alright?

_No. I’m the worst._

–Yeah. You good?

Dick didn’t answer, but the city noises filled in as a response to that question. Stray dogs barking, fights echoing from the apartments, deafening ambulances and police sirens. Nothing was good for anyone, they knew. Dick didn’t believe his brother for a single second, but neither would comment on it. This has been the way they deal with each other for years now, why change? It’s not perfect, but it’s a functioning system.

Nightwing stole a quick glance to his brother. It was somewhat rare to see Red Hood without that helmet – the domino mask still hid a good portion of his face, but it managed to show what they all lingered for: a clue that he was still human. That it was Jason they were talking to, and not a far too gone vigilante with a blood lust that was easily reflected on that goddamned red helmet.

–Did you talk to him?

–Which one? –Jason asks, knowing that he only could have meant Bruce or Damian.

–Either one works.

–Ah… No, to both. But I should have talked to the brat, though. –Jason admits, crossing his arms and pursing his lips. –I fucked up.

–Yeah, you did. But don’t worry about it, he’s fine. –Dick shakes his head in dismissal, used to the family’s dramatic antics more than anyone else.

It was truly tiring. Almost as if every single family member enjoyed being part of a terribly written soap opera – the awful lines, pointless drama, lack of communication as a plot device and the overly melancholic backstories. It seemed like every time something was fixed, they managed to break three more on their there. They were a group of depressed, traumatized, morally questionable people and while they all had care and some sort of love for each other, it never seemed to be enough to cover for all of the damage.

–It’s because he’s used to me being a dick. Believe it or not, I don’t like that any better. –Jason rolls his eyes, remembering the indifference Damian treated him with after the breakfast incident. –And I have no idea of how to fix that.

–That’s on you, figure it out. –Dick shrugs and turns his head to look at Jason, with a smirk plastered on his face.

He and Bruce had taken years to find the best way to deal with Damian – and Jason had started out late, but he too had to learn how, at some point. His younger brother was as much of a victim as he was, and whether he liked it or not, they were a family and he had a responsibility with them.

They all had a crazy fucking father. As insane and dangerous as any other lunatic that they had managed to defeat or shove into Arkham. Bruce was good man and he did have good intentions – he did love his family more than anything in the world. His unbalanced epiphanies often got in the way of his better judgment, though, and things usually got complicated when that happened. Jason, most of all, had plenty of personal stories like that.

Like that one time he got brutally murdered by a maniac clown.

They tried not to say it out loud, but Dick and Jason had a silent agreement that their father was batshit crazy and that it was their responsibility to watch over their younger siblings and, if possible, protect them from… Well, Bruce.

So, after all this time, it was good to see Jason make an effort. Dick couldn’t stop thinking that it was about time that he stopped acting indifferent and looked at their family as a responsible adult who wants to fix things and take action, rather than an overgrown child who keeps breaking things apart.

In fact, it was a relief.

–Yeah, I know. But he’s good? Really?

–I didn’t spend a long time there, but he was the same as always. –Dick said, still looking over his brother. Preoccupation was a strange look on Jason’s face and it was hard to take it in. –He was worried about the teacher. You know; _that_ one. She was fired yesterday.

For some reason, hearing those words made Jason’s stupid heart skip a beat.

–Fired? The teacher?

Dick only nodded in response and Jason couldn’t tell if he was thankful or maddened by it. He definitely didn’t have a right to complain: after all, staying quiet and only ever providing enigmatic answers was pretty much his signature, by now. He could use a couple of clear explanations, though, especially when the subject is so… Important?

And what about the teacher? Fired. Why, though? What did she do? If Damian liked her, she must have been a really good teacher (the type who deserves a monthly raise). What other explanation there would be? What reason other than being fired because of the investigation made by the police commissioner?

The Gotham Academy is known to be strict; they wouldn’t want to be associated to something like that. So they probably caught a sniff of the problem and fired her to get it away as quickly as possible.

 _Fuck_.

Did he make that girl lose her job?

His stupid and so fucking selfish mistake started to take over all of her life. Almost infectious, as if he touched her left hand with his fingertips and it managed to infect the rest of her body. He fucked up – he fucked up _bad_.

And he even had the nerve to fight with Damian for being right.

–Did I do that? –Jason asked, holding into a tiny strand of hope that the following answer would be anything other than “yes”.

–It’s yet to be decided. The bat will meet with Jim Gordon tonight to say that we have the dagger. He can’t close the case, but they will cease the investigation on her and the other people who were in that room at the moment. –Dick uncrossed his arms and turned to the side, facing his brother. –The description of you that she gave them will get lose, too. It wasn’t detailed, but it was a description anyway. And he will assume the blame for that; Red Hood was never there.

Bruce, the ever so protective father.

The spite in Jason wanted to deny the help and deal with it alone, but he knew better than to be proud. Bruce had his way to deal with the commissioner – Red Hood, on the other hand, was nothing but a highly dangerous, wanted psycho vigilante. That’s to say that they were all better off like that.

–Does he know that she was fired?

–You seem invested. –Dick provoked, knowing that his words would have the same impact as poking Jason on the forehead with his fingertips.

–Fuck you, you d…

–Ok, I get it, you’re sensitive. –Dick interrupted his brother before he got carried away with the cussing. –And yeah, he does. He’s keeping tabs on everyone involved. That and Damian gave us a thirty minute speech as to why they had to rehire her.

Of course: she was Damian’s favorite teacher or something like that. Damian was probably the richest kid on the school, as his father was the richest guy on the city. Bruce could probably give them a call like “ _why did you fire my kid’s favorite teacher? I want her back_ ” and the issue would be solved within seconds.

 _Hopefully_. And once again, Bruce would contain the damage for Jason’s impulsive actions.

–Ok. That’s better than nothing, I g…

Jason was interrupted for a second time. This time, not by his brother: his burner phone was ringing. The thing that he used to deal with whatever shady business he got caught up with in the moment. The emergency phone, if you will.

–Come on, pick it up. –Dick rolled his eyes behind the mask, hoping that his brother wouldn’t be messing with something else.

Jason wasn’t good at multitasking. You know: investigating, hunting down, torturing, killing, helping out someone else and fixing another random issue all at once. Or, in another words, he actually was, but things usually got very messy when he did.

The phone had rung for a while, before Jason picked it up. The quality of the sound wasn’t good, but he did recognize the voice immediately – after all, they had been together not even 24h hours ago.

_“–J? It’s me! The phone is dying, but I’m on the trunk of a car. I tried to call the police, but they didn’t believe me! J? Fuck, the phone is dy…”_


	9. Brace yourself

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I planned to post this yesterday morning, but I forgot my ID on my grandma's house and had to go there to pick it up (We went to a bar after class). So...... I know this is a liiiittle late, but it's with all the love in the world.  
> Also. Just so I don't forget to mention (ever) - I feel like some of you might think that I'm really diverting from Jason, but like... If I was in Gotham, I'd like to have some piece of attention from every single one of these motherfuckers. Sure, it's Jason's dick I'd like to get, but don't you want to meet Diana though? I don't know, just hope nobody's bothered.  
> EITHER WAY. Here's the chapter! Hope you like it!

The average heart rate for adults is 60/100 beats per minute. That’s what they call the resting rate, as opposed to the fast rate. The fast rate, you see, is when your heart goes over 100 beats per minute and it doesn’t stop there. That can be caused by either an abnormality that produces rapid electrical signs that speed up the heart rate, because of trauma, illness or a natural response to some sort of stress or exercise.

That’s how you suffer from tachycardia.

While I haven’t lived the healthiest life there is to live, I probably shouldn’t have a heart attack at the age of 24. As fast as my heart was beating, though, that’s probably what was happening.

When the black car parked by my side on the street, my heart was probably hitting sixty or seventy beats, considering the walk. When I saw two people hop out of it, both dressed in weird dark costumes and faces covered, it definitely jumped to ninety. From the very second they held me, tossed my bag on the ground and then shoved me into the trunk of the car, it easily rose to over a hundred. It’s safe to say that the rocky ride on the poorly paved streets of Gotham didn’t sooth me at all.

The pain that expanded on my chest was so high and unusual that I actually thought that my heart was going to burst. I couldn’t breathe – although that’s probably because there isn’t a lot of air circulation inside of a trunk.

Used to the bandit’s antics of stealing purses and easily wiggling objects out of your pockets, I had tucked my phone inside my pants.

Unlike my purse, which was probably being carried away by some thieves, by now, I still had it in me. The battery was dying, but it was enough to make a call: Jim Gordon. In fact, he was the last person who I had called, so I didn’t even need to look for his number.

But he didn’t pick up. The battery kept getting weaker.

I called the police, then. When I told them that I had been kidnapped by two people wearing masks and costumes, they said “ _and Superman is taking my shift today_ ” and ended the call.

For a swift moment, I considered calling my mother. Although… Why? It’s not like she can handle anything. To be fair, I think that she’d be better off hearing about the news latter, however it turned out like. My mother’s stressed energy wouldn’t help me any better and I knew better than to give _her_ a heart attack.

Searching for an answer, almost as a cue, something weird poked my toes – something on my shoe.

 _J’s_ phone number. I did shove the little paper into one of my shoes yesterday. And what did he say? That I could call if I was in trouble, right? What kind of trouble did he mean, though? Trouble as in legal trouble? Or as in “I’m being kidnapped” kind of trouble? I mean – as far as I know, he is a high class bandit. He probably knows a thing or two about what’s going on. And if I’m about to call anyone for any kind of favors, I might as well call him.

Although… Should I really? He _is_ a high class bandit. I should not by any means call that man: I should just try to call the police again and hope for the best. Maybe Jim Gordon would pick up, this time.

But my heart kept punching against my chest, my hands were still shaking and my mind was definitely not in it’s best moment. That would have to serve as an excuse, in case I ever needed one.

It was terribly dark inside the trunk, so I was careful to not lose the little thing, curling into myself to take the shoe off. The piece of paper rolled right into my hand and despite my strong tremors, I managed to dial the right number pretty fast. The battery was at 5% and going down fast.

The phone rang for a while – three, four, five times.

You know, phones are usually set to ring for thirty seconds, which makes up for 8 or 9 rings, depending on what phone and network you use.

To me, it felt as if I had waited for five whole minutes, each ring dragging itself for 45 seconds. My rushed heartbeats were way louder than the sound that was coming from the phone and the car’s engine made it even more difficult hear it.

 _J_ eventually picked up the phone, though. No sounds came from the other side of the call, but I tried to inform what was going on was quickly as possible. While I was speaking, a final notification to say that the phone was at 1% came. Taking it off my ear to look at the screen, the call ended itself as the phone died. I tried to press all of it’s buttons for a while, but eventually gave up and tucked it back on my pants.

I barely got to say anything and the thing was now completely useless –my last contact with the rest of the world had been with a bandit who framed me for his crime.

A sharp chest pain hit me again, reminding me of how fast my heart was still going and how much harder it was getting to take any oxygen in. Against my will, my head rested on the dusty felt of the trunk and my eyes started to close, despite how bad I fought to keep them open.

Soon enough, the world got quiet for me. It kind of disappeared.

+

A dead phone is an untraceable phone.

From the streets, Jason didn’t have the means to look for the phone’s last location, so he passed that job to Alfred. Tim went back to the cave to break into the police system and find the call she had made – it might have contained a little more information than what they had. He was also supposed to intercept any calls with the keywords “teacher”, “Y/N”, “L/N”, “kidnapped”, “trunk” and “kill”.

They had to start somewhere.

–You gave that girl your number? –Dick inquired, raising his tone.

–You want to talk about it _now_? –Jason talked back, snapping the helmet in place.

The two of them were rushing through the stairs of the building. They hardly ever did something like that; actually getting into the civilian’s homes, but all things considered, it was the most reasonable way.

That was a tall fucking building.

–When did that happen, again?

–Yesterday. Why?

–Is there any chance someone saw you two together? –Dick said, grasping his brother’s shoulder and making him stop on the middle of the stairs. –Wait a second. Answer me first.

Jason’s every instinct wanted him to snap and keep going, but he knew that it wouldn’t be that much of a wise decision. So he stopped and tried to figure out the answer to Dick’s question.

–No. You know the Kennel, nobody saw anything. –Jason shook his head frantically, so hyper that he could barely stand still. –And I was suited up on the second time.

–Don’t you think that it’s a little convenient that this girl, with a clean record, gets taken all of a sudden after she meets you? You’re sure that there is no possible connection in between these things?

Believe it or not, Dick didn’t mean to be hurtful at all. Amongst many, the subject of any of the family members being dangerous to outsiders and ruining everything they touch is a sensitive one. Most of all, to Jason, Damian and Bruce – they all had a hard time with the self-hatred.

But regardless of that, the question had to be made. Were there any chances that someone went after the girl because of him? Truth be told, both Jason Todd and Red Hood were personalities despised by an incredibly wide variety of people.

Before Jason could answer his bother with an honest “maybe”, his phone started ringing. This time, it was Tim.

_“–She called the police, but it was short. She said they took her from the main avenue and it was a black car. She also said they were wearing costumes and had their faces covered. That’s all.”_

–Ok. Do you think any surveillance camera caught that? –Jason asked, moving Dick’s hand from his shoulder and rushing back to the stairs. They still had three or four floors to get to the bottom of it.

_“–Probably. I’m looking for it right now. Just wait a minute.”_

Jason cussed when Tim ended the call. He didn’t like to wait and much less being hung up on – impatient and impulsive were words that could be easily associated to him.

–You need to calm down or you’ll end up doing something stupid. –Dick warned, following Jason with ease.

Not surprisingly, he had always been much better when it came to things that required physical effort. Jason, on the other hand, was much better with brute force (which doesn’t really include running).

–I’m calm. –Jason snarled at his brother.

By the time they had reached the curb, Tim was calling him again.

–You motherfucker! –He picked up, bringing the phone as close to the helmet as possible.

_“–Hi to you too… It was on the end of the main venue, close to the Wayne Tower. It’s a black Pontiac; license plate TNX 5739. The last time the phone was on, the location was close to the courthouse, going northwest. I think the final direction is the Novick Tunnel or the ferry.”_

–That’s good. Thanks.

 _“–You’re welcome.”_ –Tim answered sarcastically, before hanging up.

–Novick tunnel or the ferry. –Jason huffed and turned to Dick, who had his right hand over his communicator. –You’re talking to somebody?

–The bat. He met with a ghul on the One Gotham Center. –Dick answered in a warning tone. –It wasn’t a nice kind of talk.

Ah, the fucking ghuls. In all honesty, they were expected: if the dagger was in fact important, there was no way that Ra’s Al Ghul would let that one go. And in a search, they probably had discovered the same thing as Jim Gordon did: images that indicated that the teacher had suspiciously been with the thing during the time in which the cameras failed.

They too thought the girl had taken their weapon.

–Anyone I should worry about? –Jason asked, thinking back to all of the people he has met in the league of assassins.

After all, the city wouldn’t be so calm tonight.

–Whoever it was, run for the west. He’s on a chase.

–It’s the Novick tunnel. They’re trying to extract the girl. –Jason realized, picturing the map of Gotham City. –Come on, we _gotta_ go.

–I’ll see you there.

Unlike Nightwing, Jason couldn’t cross the goddamned city Tarzan style. His motorcycle was hidden a couple alleys away, though, and that was good enough. As usual, he didn’t stay back to watch Dick disappear in between the streets – longing has never been his common fashion. He has always been more of a walking-ahead-without looking-back kind of guy.

Either way, he got to the motorcycle and rode as fast as possible to the tunnels, clearing his mind from any kind of thoughts that could be distracting.

He had some people to get tonight.

+

My body was forced into awareness as it levitated good eleven inches and then fell back into the felt like a sack of gravel.

I fell heavily on my hip: the area in which I had tucked my phone on would probably have a bruise later. My shoulder didn’t feel much better, but at least my chest was much lighter – passing out probably calmed me down for long enough that my heart rate went back to a reasonable place, although it still felt pretty fast.

Yeah, I was still stuck on the trunk of that car.

I mean – people get saved from this kind of thing all the time, don’t they? Batman should be out there, right? Fucking Wonder Woman? You know… Red Hood?

Nah, come on, he’s a busy guy. And he definitely has done more than enough for me. The poor guy needs a break. Yeah, I should leave him alone.

But… Huh, Superman? You’re telling me there’s a godlike motherfucker out there who can hear everything and he didn’t hear me calling like three different people to say that I’ve been kidnapped by crazy fucks in costumes?

And why the hell was that happening, on the first place? What did I ever do? I thought that there was some sort of process to kidnapping people: don’t they look if their family can pay for the rescue first? Because truth be told, my mother doesn’t have a lot more than what I do and that’s considering that I still have months of student loans ahead of myself to deal with.

And all in all, I was still a lucky one. As a part of the Wayne program to insert more low income students into the academic space, the scholarship I was offered gave me a 75% discount on the major I chose. Talking superheroes and all, Bruce Wayne saved a lot more lives than what these dressed up lunatics with their paraphernalia did.

But maybe I’m just petty because I’ve been tossed around in a dirty trunk like a flat tire and nobody came to save me.

Well. I’d have to do it Mulan style and do the job myself. The problem resides in the fact that “doing the job” is a lot harder than what they make it look like in the movies. I had checked: there was nothing else on the trunk and pushing the seats to get inside the car with the raptors didn’t seem like a much better idea. Searching for an alternative, though, something weird sparked on my mind.

And it was John Mulaney with his goddamned J.J. Bittenbinder piece.

What did he say again? Something with being able to push the tail lights off the car and wiggling your hand through the hole? It does sound like a terrible idea. It was the only thing I could think of, anyway, so I tried to push myself forward to try it out. As I reached up, though, a great impact hit the car and my body jumped inside the trunk, once again. _Wait_. Is this what happened on that other time? It was an abnormally brutal impact. What the hell was happening out there?

Inside the trunk, every single noise produced by the vehicle was terribly loud and distinguished. It was actually impossible to make out any other type of sound being produced inside the car and outside of it. So were we just driving through a particularly bad road or were we hitting against things? Or, I don’t know... Were there things hitting us?

I reached up again and another hit came. This time, my forehead went straight into the door; the only part of the goddamned trunk that wasn’t lined with felt.

My body dropped like I was a ragdoll: for a couple of seconds, my system malfunctioned in a way that in the chaotic darkness of the trunk, my brain shut off. My mind got blank: it didn’t recognize any aspect of the universe. It was a horrifying sneak peek into what being in vegetative state probably is like.

I’m pretty sure that we were hit a couple more times while I was at it: my body kept being scrambled inside the tiny space, arms flopping around in weird angles.

By the time I came back to myself, I reached for what I believed to be the back of the tail light and pulled and the felt – then, I did find a little something. Almost as a tiny lock, which I pulled and pulled until it popped in my hand. Then, I started to punch the space repeatedly; somehow, the motion made my head hurt even more, but I didn’t stop.

The tail light actually fell off and as it did, some light flooded into the trunk. I immediately pushed my hand through the hole and tried to bring my face forward to see where I was what the fuck was going on out there.

The first thing that I actually happened to see with my own two eyes was the fucking batmobile, right ahead of me. Despite the speed both cars were going for, I could actually make out Batman’s cowl. He seemed to be shouting at someone, but I couldn’t see anybody else from my ridiculously limited vision.

Then, something else hit the car: this time, from the side. It shook me from my position, but I wasn’t the only one. The car itself started to spin, until it hit something else with an alarming impact that made my ears ring and then… It started to fall?

Were we on a fucking bridge?! And yes, the car was definitely falling. In the initial motion, my body was jerked away from the tail light and my back pressed against the car.

_Ok. Batman... Batman! I know I badmouthed you not even twenty minutes ago, but if you take me out of this one I swear to god that I’m going to have a Batman birthday themed party next year and I’ll be…_

Something above of me was pulled and with a pop, the trunk flew open. Much lighter, my body stayed in the air for a bit longer and the car kept going down.

We were above the Gotham River, of all places. And before I fell any farther, something gripped my waist: a strong arm with it’s gloved hand. Thanks to what I believe to be hero paraphernalia, our bodies were launched back to the Vincefinkel Bridge. We didn’t land nicely, but at least we landed and that was more than enough for me.

Both my legs were twisted with another pair, which were much heavier than mine. The asphalt scraped my left shoulder, which braced a good deal of the impact, while my right arm was falling behind me in a funny way. And there was also a gloved hand holding my head in place: I was an inch away from hitting the ground and cracking my skull like a goddamned egg.

Without counting to three, I swung my right arm forward and placed it on the hard chest that was almost flushed against mine (oh, the embarrassment). My hand went straight to the bat shape and I used it to push myself up – except it wasn’t Batman tangled with me.

_–Red Hood?!_

–Yeah, hey. –He waved at me, sounding breathless.

Being reasonable, I know that the plain pressure of my hand definitely can’t make that much of an impact on him, but I moved it immediately, anyway. It was painful to support my weight on any of my arms, but I forced them to be able to detangle my legs off his.

–I’m sorry. –I whispered, bringing my legs closer to me and taking my hands off the ground. –You’re ok?

My voice was shamefully unstable and _maybe_ I was shaking, but we don’t need to go over all of that. I’d say that it’s terrible enough to look like a helpless dumbass, repeatedly, so I’ll give myself the luxury of pretending I’m not (once again) making a fool of myself.

–Of course. What about you? –Red Hood said, mirroring my movements and getting off the ground. Then, he offered me his hand, which I took immediately. –You’re good?

We’ve been here before.

The vigilante pulled my arm, bringing me to my feet. My shoulder actually popped with the action, but this time around, I contained a grimace.

–I’m great. –I nodded with closed eyes, trying to make my head stop spinning and to balance myself on my own feet. Not surprisingly, it was much harder than in most days. –I’m great, yeah. And what is… What’s happening? What’s happening in here?

Instead of answering, the vigilante brought a hand to the back of his red helmet, almost as if he was trying to scratch his head. He seemed to be looking at something ahead of me, so I instinctively turned around to see what it was.

A good portion of the bridge’s balcony was destroyed – probably the part in which the car went against. The black car that belonged to Batman (what the fuck?) was parked in a strange angle, doors opened. There were two men in front of it: one of them was leaning against the car, wearing a black and blue suit with a domino mask. He had his arms crossed his chest and was tilting his head to the side, looking at us – I did hit my head a couple of times, but from the slight distance, I could make out his disdainful expression.

Nightwing.

The other man was dressed in something dark, similar to the other guys who took me. He was tied down to the ground and seemed to be unconscious – probably beaten down by one of them. Meanwhile, Batman… Was nowhere to be seen.

Behind me, Red Hood touched my shoulder lightly and then started walking ahead, to Nightwing. I took that as a clue and followed him, despite the protest started by my bones and muscles (which came mainly from my hips, knees and shoulders).

–Did he jump?

–What do you think? –Nightwing was ironic, as he tilted his head to the broken balcony.

I looked, too. Batman jumped to go get the guys who crashed the car? Were there any chances that they were fighting under water? Like in those cheesy action movies that one of the fighters gets to the surface right before they run out of oxygen?

–Shouldn’t we… I don’t know, go help him? –I prompted, grasping my own hands nervously.

The two vigilantes turned to me as if I had said something ridiculous. Then, when the two of them realized that I was being serious, they sighed in defeat and calmly walked to the edge of the bridge. I tried to follow, but my feet forced themselves to stop at least three feet behind them.

No more risks today.

–I mean… –Red Hood started, looking down curiously. –Do you think he’s fine?

–I don’t know. –Nightwing shrugged and then leaned in to look at the river streaming under us. –What do you say?

They were discussing as if life and death were a trivial subject that didn’t have any kind of importance – like the possibility of someone drowning right in front of us wasn’t as alarming as I was making it out to be.

–Oh my god, you’re two are ins…

–Yeah, _there he is_. –In unison, the two vigilantes interrupted me, indicating something down in the water.

I couldn’t see much from my position and I was definitely not willing to come any closer to the edge. _No more risks today_.

Something that looked like a hook was thrown in the edge right in front of us. Red Hood and Nightwing stepped back, siding with me, and within seconds Batman emerged in front of us, launched up in what I believed to be the same way in which I was. Differently than me and Red Hood, though, he came up standing on his feet, like some sort of expert who has done this over a thousand times before.

I’ve been hearing about this man since I was a little kid – the fucking Batman. He was wearing the dark, mighty suit everyone speaks of and the black cowl that became an actual icon on the city. Still dripping water into the ground and standing dangerously close to the edge, as if it was not at all unnerving.

–The car was empty, wasn’t it? –Red Hood guessed, going forward again to look down to the river.

–We still have our little friend, over there. –Nightwing tilted his head to the man tied down behind us. –I don’t think we can get him to say anything, but it’s worth the try.

–He won’t. –Red Hood shook his head dismissively, turning back to me. –He’s as good as dead; but that doesn’t really matter. They won’t stop looking for _her_.

 _Oh_. Wait a fucking minute… What?

–Who’s looking for me? –I choked out, searching for some sort of expression on their faces.

Fucking masks.

–The police isn’t the only kind of people who thinks you stole that dagger. –Nightwing smiled at me and then looked back to Batman and Red Hood. –We need to take her out of here.

–They will find her, anyw…

– _Wait!_ I’m not going anywhere! –I said, interrupting the Batman ( and oh my god, what has my life become?). –And who’s looking for me?

My question silenced the three of them. They seemed to look at each other for a couple of times, and then back to me – whatever it was, I already knew that it wasn’t going to be anything remotely good.

–Their boss. –Batman answered, pointing to the river. –The owner of the khanjar that disappeared.

 _Oh_ , you have got to be fucking kidding me. The khanjar? Again? For how long will I have to keep doing this? And… _What the fuck?!_ Why did I have to be targeted by a criminal? You know, the type of criminal that goes against people like Batman, Nightwing and Red Hood, no less. What did I get myself into? And _why_?

–I don’t have this thing. –I told them, tired of having to go through this conversation again. –This is just a really dumb coincidence.

–We know. –Red Hood cut me off. –We have it.

Now… That’s something.

I thought that _J_ had stolen the khanjar; you know, the thief. Or maybe he had it and these guys took it from him – either by force or in some sort of negotiation. Or… I don’t… Well maybe _J_ worked with them? Maybe he was… I don’t know... One of them?

–Ok. –I said, carefully. –And what do I do, now?

–Until they learn the dagger is with us, they’ll look for her. –Batman answered without looking at me. –So I need to fix this first. While I’m at it, she needs to disappear.

–I got it. –Red Hood nodded at him.

–You’re sure? –Nightwing checked, seemingly unsure of the alternative.

What was so strange about it?

–Yeah. Just don’t take your time. –The vigilante shrugged and then looked at me. –Come on, let’s get you out of here.

–I’m not getting out of the city. –I warned him, despite understanding that I didn’t have many options (or someone else to trust). It wasn’t possible to decipher him with that helmet, but I tried anyway.

 _Yeah_ , it was pointless.

–Let’s go.

Red Hood walked away, but I didn’t go after him immediately. I hesitated and looked over the two vigilantes again; they were just as hard to read, but Batman gave me a tiny, encouraging nod, before turning away to walk to his car.

–Hey, I want a ride. –Nightwing told him, going after the man who was all unconscious on the ground. –Wait a second!

They kind of seemed… I guess domestic, which is definitely something weird to say.

–Y/N! –Red Hood’s almost familiar voice called me out, from what could have only been the other side of the bridge. –Let’s fucking move.

I turned around to – o _h_. He had a motorcycle; I hadn’t seen that thing before. It looked rough and dangerous; it looked like something that I’d never tell my mother that I got close to.

–Where did that come from? –I asked, walking over to where he was leaning against the motorcycle.

–You should start paying a little more attention to your surroundings. –He nagged at me, before moving to get on top of it. –Do you need help?

–No. –I denied, despite _probably_ needing some help. The thing wasn’t particularly low and my entire body was aching, but I made the effort anyway.

I really should not do _this_. This has to be, in fact, one of the most stupid decisions that I have ever made in my entire life and the mere thought of it was enough to make me cringe. I know that I’m not supposed to get in a motorcycle with a complete stranger who is known to be a wanted psycho. I really do – but I can’t force myself to stand still and say “no”.

–Hold tight. –Red Hood muttered, starting the engine. –I don’t have a helmet and this is going to be fast.


	10. stop (red lights!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! It is I, thee Closet Monster. I come bearing a new chapter for you.  
> Also. I've got script class that always makes me think of you and the fanfic, and I always want to tell you guys about it but I figure it's too boring (also nobody is interested in that).  
> I had some more notes but I forgot about them again.  
> Either way. Go have fun!

I can say this for sure: I never held onto anything as hard as I did Red Hood.

My arms were so tight around his middle that I felt like they were about to go limp. I tried my best to curl my fingers so they wouldn’t touch his stomach, but with every sharp turn, they would unintentionally dig into the fabric of his suit. And despite my poking, pushing, grasping and clinging, his body was solid, completely unaffected by me.

I tried my best to keep my head down – by now, I can say for sure that I’ve learned my lesson with security cameras. That and, well… I also don’t want to be seen by any of my students. My… Huh, my former students, actually.

Although, to be fair, at the speed we were going, they’d have to possess some amazing sight to recognize me on that motorcycle. I could barely make out defined images: everything was either a blur or an unknown place that I’ve never heard of before (sometimes, it was both).

Red Hood was quiet – but to be fair, isn’t he always? As far as I’ve noticed, the vigilante usually just stays quiet in between moderate additions of sarcastic comments. This time, he was completely silent and I can’t tell if it was for the best. Naturally, the lack of conversation made me focus on my surroundings, but since I couldn’t really focus on the blurry image of the streets, my body mistook his as a location.

Every single time we passed something shiny, the light would reflect on his helmet and flash on my eyes. The guns tucked on the holsters on his waist were pressing against my thighs and I was hyper aware of every single second of it. My hands, placed firmly on his torso, were a couple of adrenaline highs away from shaking violently and his back, which was pressed against my chest, seemed to be carved out of marble.

My heart was still going dangerously fast. So fast that I was afraid that Red Hood would be able to feel it beating – or slamming against his back.

If I opened my mouth, my voice would most definitely crack, so I didn’t.

While it was hard to distinguish the signs and buildings we were passing by, I could tell apart what region it was: Old Gotham. In this part of the city, many abandoned buildings have been occupied by pacific invaders. Some of them are so old and precarious that the authorities constantly alert the residents to leave, under notice that they might crumble at any given moment.

Old abandoned stores that were taken by strangers and that the original owners never got to claim back.

I grew so accustomed to the high speed and the constant vibration of the engine that I could have sighed in disappointment when we started slowing down. The street was small and had a very narrow road: every construction seemed to be an abandoned store of some sort, although there were lights coming from windows that denounced there were people inside.

The motorcycle took another turn and we got into a short, empty alley and he turned off the engine right in front of a graffitied roller door.

Still quiet, he looked over his shoulder, which was enough of an indication that I was supposed to get off the motorcycle. I tried to lean back and swing my right leg over the other, which resulted in a very awkward move. I managed to get off, though, and he followed right after me in much nicer counterpoise.

Red Hood fished a bunch of keys out of his pocket, crouching down to unlock the seemingly rusty bar. The roller door creaked loudly as the vigilante brought it up to it’s maximum extension – he held the door with one hand and then pointed inside.

Of course: I was supposed to get in.

I tried not to look at him: staring at that helmet and it’s intimidating LED eyes made me feel as stupid as possible. So again, I kept my head down and walked into the dark, keeping my mouth perfectly shut.

The space he indicated seemed to be empty and it was dark. I definitely didn’t want to get into another empty, dark space, commanded by a shady person wearing a mask – but all things considered, it was probably a better option than staying on the streets by myself.

Red Hood got inside with me, which I didn’t really expect, but was weirdly thankful for. Once he let the door go, it slid down with a deafening noise and the entire place got pitch black, with an exception of his eyes.

The LED lights were turned to me, staring me down.

–Where are we? –I risked the question, thankful that my voice didn’t crack.

–Somewhere you can spend the night. –He answered in a dull tone. –Come on, let’s get out of the dark.

I really couldn’t see anything inside the room, but I followed the LED lights coming from his eyes and the noises from his footsteps. His feet eventually hit something metallic, which was enough of an indication that we were going to climb some steps. I reached out for a handrail, but my hand didn’t find anything, so I brought it back to my chest with the constant thought that if I wasn’t careful, I’d probably fall down the stairs soon enough.

–Is it safe here? –I asked, hoping that it wouldn’t sound inconsiderate to his effort of bringing me to his… Safe house? Cove? Hideout?

–You’ll have to trust me, won’t you? –He talked back, with a pinch of sarcasm in between each word.

We climbed some: six, seven, eight, nine, ten steps… The man in front of me stopped all of a sudden, which led me to collide against his back. Again, he didn’t move a single inch – and besides that, I stepped back immediately (almost falling down with it). It’s hard to tell what my limits are and for some reason, he seems much less playful tonight.

I heard the keys shaking again, which he seemed to fumble with for a while, until there was the clear sound of something being unlocked. The door was pushed open and very dull, grey light washed over us.

It was an improvised living room – probably, part of an improvised home. The walls were stained by infiltration, whereas in some parts, the paint was falling down and you could see sharps of plaster on the floor. There was one glass window, which was so dirty that it could have been matte and the hinges were so rusty that everywhere around them was stained orange.

There was thick blue blanket placed on a leather couch, which was clearly old, but seemed weirdly inviting. A wood table filled with papers and other things that I couldn’t identify, but I couldn’t see any chairs around it.

–It’s safe. –He confirmed, more seriously than before. –It’s probably not what you’d like, but you have to stay here tonight. If we get word out today still, we might be able to put you back there, but not today. There’s a bedroom you can sleep on; it’s the last door to the left.

He said that and then walked slowly to the table. Again, I wanted to keep my eyes off him – I didn’t want to seem like I was prying on anything, but it was a hard job. In a dark, empty, invaded shop-made-apartment, there isn’t much to look at if not the company you have with you.

–I just wished I knew what’s happening. –I confessed, turning my head slightly to stare at his back. –I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore.

In the urge to do something, I made my feet carry me to the window. Despite being so dirty, it was actually possible to see the street outside: it was empty and silent. The strong wind was whistling against the glass, but it wasn’t cold inside.

–You probably won’t believe me. –Red Hood said, still messing with something on the table. Curious, I tried to focus on his hands: he was holding a grey re… Oh. He was loading the gun. –But this doesn’t get any better with time.

Now that’s an interesting choice of words. What exactly does Red Hood means by time? Maybe he started out young, but how young – how old is he? And the vigilante didn’t sound like he was very happy with his current “occupation” or the “time” that it took: actually, he seemed a little bitter about it. I mean, what even happened to him on the first place?

What kind of thing takes a man and turns it into a wanted criminal? What kind of crimes does it take to make you a goner? Was he nothing but Red Hood or was there a man under that mask? What was that man like?

–What exactly do you mean? –I insist, turning around and leaning on the window.

The cool glass was an actual relief against the back of my head. It was still aching and all of the scrambling inside that trunk didn’t help me feel any better. I’ve been amidst an ongoing headache for the past two days, which only seemed to get worse and worse with every ten minutes. I had a good number of painkillers on my bag, but right now, they were all lost in the middle of the streets, along with my documents, my wallet, my keys and other things that I can’t remember.

 _Fuck_. Now that I’m no longer in eminent danger, I’m starting to worry about the things that seemed trivial not even twenty minutes ago.

–What I mean is that I have no idea of what’s going on either. And this shit doesn’t get better with time, so just roll with it. –He tilts his head to the side and then turns back to me, with that gun still in hands.

I guess that all of this was supposed to make me feel scared, intimidated and terrified. You know: shivering for nothing, too shocked to speak, acting completely irrational and everything else they use to describe fear and panic. But honestly, I didn’t feel a lot. My heart was fast, sure, but besides that – that and the pain, it didn’t feel like I was getting any closer to losing it. Maybe if it happened as an isolated case, but I guess that the amount of hits that I’ve dealt with for the past week roughened me up for this.

–Hm… Yeah, it doesn’t make me feel better.

–Yeah, it’s shit advice, but it’s all I got. You take it or you take it. –He shrugs, in what seems to be a hint of that playful tone. The vigilante tucks the gun back on the empty holster and turns around, leaning on the table. By the time his eyes are shining on me again, I can tell that the mood has changed again and he feels a lot darker. –I’m sorry about this.

–About what? Did you do anything? –I ask playfully, hoping that it will help dilute his shadowy tone. Red Hood doesn’t say anything back, though, and I know that he actually meant it. So this time around, I’m the one tilting my head; my neck doesn’t like that motion, but I try to push it to the back of my mind and keep a grimace off my face. –Did you do anything?

The vigilante’s heavy silence leads me to believe that he, in fact, _did_ something. But to be honest, there’s no logic to that: not one that I can think of, at least. How exactly could he be a part of anything that fucked me up lately?

In reality, I had been reaching the conclusion that my encounters with Red Hood were the only things going right on my life.

–I made things harder for you.

–How? –I ask, pushing myself off the window and walking in his direction. –Tell me.

This type of barefaced confidence is hardly ever what I go with, but maybe I was still running high on all of that adrenaline. One thing is for sure: my heart was still going fast, the blood in my veins rushing wild like the wind outside.

–What did you do? –I insist, stopping a feet away from him. –Things... You’re telling me that you have anything to do with it? Why have you… Are you watching me? Lately, I mean. You are. Why?

Red Hood seemed just as unaffected by my confused words as he was to my hands. The way the red helmet stared down at me, as a relentless monster with incessant power, I almost regretted ever stepping up to say anything; from accusing him of anything, even though he had just held himself guilty of something.

Sometimes I forget that I can’t just face him the same way I do everybody else. Sometimes I forget that this is not just another one of my students who needs some though love, a mediocre man who I can chew on alive or a clueless person who needs to hear a thing or two.

This man is so wild, I don’t even know his name. So wild, the only name I know is the one his victims call him, among pleas and desperate screams.

Sometimes I’m so caught up on the things about him that make me feel safe, that I forget that I am _not_.

–Things are a lot more complicated than what you’re aware of. –He answers in a low, almost warning tone. –And I don’t think you want to learn.

I am a teacher: I know better than to talk without thinking about my words first. So despite how bad every ounce of my body was urging me to brainstorm a argument out of nowhere, I controlled myself and thought about it.

What is it that I don’t understand? Is it my life? I mean, I know that’s not understandable already, but if there’s an answer, why the hell wouldn’t I like to learn? After all, understanding this whole mess is the only thing I want.

What is this man trying to hide from me? What does he have to hide, besides his identity? I mean, what even is his identity? Would I, by any means, know who? Who do I know that is so fucking shady, he would be a part time wanted criminal?

_Oh, fuck._

–How did you find me? –I press on, getting just a little bit closer. –Did you track my phone? Were you watching me already?

–Tell me how I did it. –He prompts, in a challenging tone.

My heart goes back to beating so fast, it is actually audible to the two of us; so fast that it actually makes my chest hurt and my hands quiver. Looking into his white LED eyes still makes me feel just as stupid, by I hold my stare in place. He doesn’t shift by the proximity and neither by my challenge, but that’s not surprising. I didn’t really expect any less from him.

–Take your helmet off. –I ask him, breathless. I didn’t realize that I had been holding my breath and it made my voice sound a lot more desperate than what it was meant to be. –I already know what your face looks like.

Red Hood was silent, shoulders still tense, but I knew I had his attention. Every single nerve in my body twitched, regretting my choice to challenge the vigilante and warning me to run away as fast as my legs could take me.

I didn’t do any of that, though. My feet were stuck on the ground like roots and on another note, my body was actually enjoying it – the proximity, the warmth and the challenge. Adrenaline has been running so high on my system these days that it might as well be addicted to it.

The smell of leather, gunpowder and smoke shouldn’t be so enticing, but it was. Something on the back of my mind was urging me to step even further and breathe in his scent.

Maybe I finally lost my damn mind.

The vigilante started to slowly raise both hands. The irrational part of me immediately assumed that he was going to do something to hurt me, but in a haze of spite, I didn’t step back – and thankfully, I was wrong. He raised his hands until they touched both sides of his red helmet, pressed something which I assumed to be behind his ears and with a pop, the thing snapped open.

He took the thing off his head and put it on the table, by his left side.

The lack of light on the apartment didn’t made J’s beautiful green eyes any less vibrant, from where I was standing. They stared right back at me like they were made out of chlorophyll.

His face bore the exact expression I had been picturing: defiance.

And I was right – I proved my point. But now… What do I really do with this information? I’m not sure of what this is supposed to mean and I know that there’s nothing I can do about it.

Being powerless is terrifying.

–Did you figure out what you wanted? –He provoked me, in an almost unimpressed tone.

To be fair, I’m not even sure of what I wanted. I was just taken by this raving urge to press the man until he admitted my suspicion, but I never had an intention, on the first place.

I needed to know, though. Of all things on my life that have been going wrong or terribly confusing, the mystery surrounding the vigilante Red Hood and the thief J were the ones that drove me insane the most. On the end of it all, Red Hood and J were the same person, and as we’re talking identity, isn’t it valid to wonder if one of them isn’t real or if the two are valid?

When I met him on the museum, was he Red Hood or J? Does J, the bandit, even exists or was it just a disguise to come into the exhibit and lurk on the khanjar as an innocent civilian? Not even an hour ago he said they had the khanjar, after all. “They” included Batman and Nightwing, though, and this very fact made everything just as confusing. Was Batman the bad guy or was Red Hood secretly good?

 _Fuck_. I barely even questioned Red Hood’s moral and intentions before I knew the vigilante was the thief that I met in the museum. The weirdo who easily got on my nerves with his antics.

In all honesty, I don’t know what to say, but I know that it’s not my place to judge. So with an inevitable sigh, I ask the last thing that has been bugging me about all of this.

–Why?

The immediate impact from my simple question seems to disarm the vigilante like I had been holding a gun myself. J’s defiant expression undid itself, as he probably considered the answer. A simple “why?” is a bit too wide in meaning, but I have a feeling that he would get what I meant to say easily.

–I guess I got curious. –His voice drops an octave, which makes some shivers run down my spine.

He didn’t break the eye contact and I didn’t dare do it myself. It felt like every single hair in my body was rising; my skin all goosebumps. The air in between us felt so heavy, I could probably pick it up and try to hold it above our heads – it’s density carried electric waves that would hit his body and then bounce back to mine.

–So what’s next? –I prompt, still a little out of breath. Fearing that at any second, my voice will crack. –You got the khanjar and now there’s someone looking for it. Are you going to solve this? And if you do, what do I do then?

–Then, for own good, you will forget all of this and you will go on with your life like it never happened. –J states in the same tone, taking a step closer. –That easy.

Ha. As if I can just sway back into my old life like nothing ever happened, after losing my fiance, my job, my clean record and my fucking anonymity. _That easy._

–Is this your usual procedure? Has everybody in this goddamned city seen your faces already, but stayed quiet because you’re big and scary?

–You’re the first person who has seen my face that I haven’t killed; now that’s my usual procedure. Show a little gratitude, won’t you?

Hm. To think I ever questioned Red Hood’s bad reputation.

–No, I won’t. –I said without thinking, taken by either adrenaline or insanity (perhaps, both). –You walked into my life like it was yours to play with and now you’ll have to deal with it.

Judging by the expression on his face, J didn’t enjoy my answer at all.

The only light seeping into the room was from the lamplight outside, which made it hard to see with much clarity. From up close, though, his face had a blue hue and the “J” scarred into his cheek stood out like there was a flashlight pointed at it. For some reason, I hadn’t seen it before.

 _J_. What’s the meaning of this? I know better than to ask.

–You’re curious, now? –The man tilted his head to the side, with a challenging smirk plastered on his face.

So he did notice that I was looking at his scar. I don’t know why it surprised me, though: we were standing at a very short distance from each other. A step further and his chest would be pressed against mine (a thought that, for some reason, I wasn’t very contrary to).

–You didn’t answer my question.

–I’ll leave you alone forever; everyone will. You will never have to worry your pretty head about shit like this for the rest of your life. –He prompts. –Like that better?

–Thank you. –It’s what I say, despite not being completely pleased with my own answer. I know that it’s not a good idea to nurture this conflict, though, so I decide to kill it while I can.

–Good. –He mutters in a tone that levels with mine, sulky. –You stay here for the night. The bat is taking the target off your back right now. Tomorrow morning you’ll probably be good to leave, but we’ll keep an eye on you until everything is cleared out.

I don’t like that. I mean, sure, I like the “taking the target off your back” and the “good to leave”, but I don’t like the implication that it might not be that easy (or fast). Haven’t I gone through enough already?

–Ok. –I shrug in defeat, seeing as if there is nothing else I can do or say about it. –And now?

–I’m going out to solve something, so you’re staying alone here. –He started, but stopped himself as soon as my face started to morph into something terrified along with his words. –It’s safe in here, no one is going to kick in. Besides, someone will be watching the place outside, until I come back.

–Who?

 _Not another lunatic, I hope._ But I don’t say these words out loud.

–Robin. You’ve met him before. –Red Hood has the smirk back in his face. –It’s safe, you can rest. You _should_ rest, because staying awake won’t help anybody.

–Nah, I don’t think I can. My entire body hurts. –I wave him off, suddenly reminded of the ongoing ache on my head.

–I got some painkillers on the bathroom, knock yourself out. Just don’t OD on me. –He advises, finally breaking the eye contact that had been connecting the two of us. –I’m going out.

I don’t step back and wave him goodbye, despite my instinctual politeness telling me to. J reaches to the table, grabbing the red helmet and clicking it back in place – the sassy man gone, giving place to the blood chilling vigilante. He seems to give me one last look, before stepping aside and going for the door that he had left open.

–Be careful. –The words escape my lips before I can hold them back.

As if he was considering my words, Red Hood stops in the middle of the room for a second and then goes ahead without saying anything back. The vigilante closes the door and a couple of distinct noises lead me to believe that he locked me inside.

Great.

By either the lack of his presence or the adrenaline wearing off, the room started to feel a little too cold and a little too dark. My phone was dead, so I couldn’t use it’s light to guide myself on the place. I made myself move, though: soon enough, I found the bedroom he had talked about and my fingers landed right above the switch. After spending such a long time in the dark, the sudden light against my eyes made my head spin, but I held myself in place. After the nausea passed, I looked at the room in front of me.

There was a bed that seemed to scream my name, a small dresser, a glass window that was very similar to the one in the living room and a door that I believed would lead to the bathroom.

Something on the bedroom caught my attention, though. I stepped closer just to make sure that my eyes weren’t making up things, but the image didn’t change. My bag, which had been taken from me and tossed into the ground a couple of hours ago, was sitting in a chair by the bed.

It looked dirty and dusty, but it was definitely my bag.

I rushed to get it, to check if my documents were still inside. There was a note on top of it, so poorly placed that another gush of wind could probably take it away to another part of the room. The little note said _“Found it by the lamplight. Hope that everything is still inside - R”_

–Who the fuck is R? –I mutter to myself, folding the paper and tucking it back into the bag.

Almost as a cue, cold wind rushed into the room by the slightly open window. I stepped forward to close it, but before I did so, my eyes immediately went to the colorful figure standing on top of a building right in front of this one.

Of course: Robin.

The boy smiled at me and waved. All things considered, I couldn’t make myself smile in return, but I waved back to him before closing the window and pulling the almost sheer curtain over it.

A quick search proved that nothing had been retrieved from my bag: money, documents, keys, everything was still inside. That and some painkillers of my own, which seemed to call out my name as loudly as the bed did.

So I sat down, took off my shoes, fished out the hand sanitizer, forced myself to swallow two pills without any water and then eased myself on the bed.

I genuinely thought that it would be a little harder, but my body melted as soon as my back hit the mattress. My eyes were forcing themselves shut and despite how bad I fought against it, my consciousness was slipping away faster than what I could keep up with.

I fell asleep.


	11. go (red blood)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HIIIIIIIII!!!!!! I said to some people that we'd have more Damian on this chapter, but I totally mixed things. Our boy is only coming back on the next one, sorry bbs.  
> Also. PAY ATTENTION. Dealing with Jason and all that "oh he legally dead but hm... is he really?" is stressing me out, so I'll make things really simple. IN THIS UNIVERSE RIGHT HERE, Jason is legally alive. Let's say that after he "came back" and became less freaky, Bruce hacked into the city hall or something, altered some documents and made Jason *a thing* again, although nobody really talks about it. Is that ok? Please say so.
> 
> AND WOW! SCRIPT CLASS! IT'S AWESOME AND I LOVE IT! Script and literature are very different styles - in script, you need to be extremely objective, which is kind of painful to me. But I enjoy the story-writing tips, which can be used in both just fine. So yeah, that's it!!! ALSO!  
> Today I did a sociological rapporteurship on the coloniality of power; wrote the synopsis, argument and general plan of my script (it's a short film about a ghost called Maria Condolina) and wrote a audiovisual language analysis on What We Do In The Shadows (my favorite movie). What I'm trying to say is:
> 
> Boy am I tired. So. I hope you guys like this chapter.

_Heat_.

I was burning, wet and breathless. My back against the mattress, embraced by the sheets, pressed down by something else – someone else. One of my hands came up to the back of his head, the wet black hair slipping from my fingers. His mouth came down to my neck, leaving scalding lustful kisses and then, feral bites that I didn’t know I would like so much. His big, warm hands moved from my neck, to my breasts, my waist, my thighs and coming back up to touch my…

You know, some people believe that dreams have very specific prophetic meanings, which we should watch out for. To others, they’re nothing but a hallucination that brings out a messy, incoherent narrative caused by a cobweb of memories, thoughts and anxieties. On the other hand, some might say that our dreams are a reflection of our deepest desires.

Which brings out the question: what the hell was going on with my mind?

I was startled into awareness, my body rising from the bed like the mattress had been trying to push me off – actually _sweaty_ , _wet_ _and_ _breathless_. In the strange surroundings, my brain took a minute to adjust itself and make sense out of everything that happened during the night, until it came back with an explanation as to why I had been sleeping in this unfamiliar bedroom. Wearing jeans, at that.

But I eventually remembered. The arms grabbing me from the sidewalk and dragging me into the trunk of a black Pontiac, the calls, the desperation, being hurled into the air, meeting fucking Batman and Nightwing, a wild motorcycle ride and… Well, Red Hood.

 _J_.

The tensest argument that I’ve ever been a part of.

It was either my mind playing tricks or my organism, still affected by the dream that I’ve had, but I felt like my body was burning and my skin was all goose bumps. Even though I had closed the window before lying down, every light shift in the air made me shiver and sink further into the bed. I could have used a blanket, but I didn’t see one anywhere near.

It wasn’t quiet outside. I could hear cars, sirens, sellers, neighbors and even birds – although, to be fair, these birds were probably pigeons. Considering that and the almost offensive light that came from the window, I assumed that it wasn’t at all early in the morning.

Realizing that, I jumped from the bed and tried to get up. By the time my feet touched the floor, though, a strong wave of nausea hit me and made me fall right back into the mattress. My head started spinning and all of the pain residing in my body came back to me all at once. My entire head was like the root of all pain and I felt as if it was actually throbbing; my ears were ringing and my arms felt limp, save from my shoulder, that hurt so bad, I thought it was going to fall off. My poor hips felt as if they had broken and then hammered back in place. My muscles were all sore, especially on my legs and on my back.

I didn’t really think I could actually get up on my own.

So I actually stayed there for a while, waiting for the ringing to cease and hoping that my limbs would gain back their strength after a couple of minutes – but they didn’t. Seeing that the situation wouldn’t change anytime soon, I swung my body forward, holding my neck out of fear that it would snap out of place. Once I was partially up, I stretched myself to grab my bag from the dusty bedside to find more painkillers.

They were easy to get, but my fingers fumbled with the card until I finally managed to pop two pills out of it and shove them into my mouth, which was dry as hell already.

I lied down again and gave it a couple more minutes for the effect to come around. At some point, the ringing got weaker and my head stopped pulsing as bad as it was before. It didn’t mean I felt remotely good, but I took that as a clue to get up from the bed and try to come out of the room. My body didn’t slam back into the bed, so I took that as a positive sign. I didn’t put my shoes on, though, because to do so, I’d have to sit back down and bend over, which would probably make me puke over my legs. I didn’t take my bag from the chair either: my arms felt too limp to even hold a spoon.

I can remember J saying that he would have to leave to do something else. He didn’t really say what, but his guns were loaded and his helmet was on place, so I guess that the answer is pretty self-explanatory. There was no way to tell if he was going to be in the living room already, but something in me hoped that he would.

It’s because I don’t feel too safe on my own, but also because I want to be sure that he got back to the apartment, alive and safe.

Whether I like it or not, Red Hood became a lifeline of sorts to me.

Every step towards the door felt like my bones were being painfully disassembled; the ringing coming back to my ears as if walking had triggered them. I reached up, hooking my practically numb fingers on the doorstep and using it to launch my body forward – then, I dug my nails on the wall’s plaster, using it to push myself ahead.

The first sign of life I recognized in the place was the comforting smell of something biter in the air, which was most likely coffee. The scent took me back to the living room, which was much brighter and a lot less intimidating in the morning than what it was like under nothing but moonlight.

Other than the blinding light, the second thing I noticed was a shirtless J lazily lying on the couch, holding a cup of coffee and looking bored out of his mind. Besides that, I also saw the large bandage stained red on the left side of his chest and another one curled around his left upper arm.

–Sleep well? –He was clearly ironic, sinking further into the couch without even looking back at me for an answer.

–Did that happen after I blacked out? –I ignored his behavior, coming closer to try look at the wound. –J?

He didn’t turn his face back to me immediately, like my growing impatience would have liked. The man took another sip of coffee and moved his head painfully slow, with that bored expression glued to his pretty face like it was a mask.

–I said I had some things to solve. –He shrugs, raising a finger to point to a door behind us. –There’s some coffee over there.

To be fair, that’s almost a joke. It’s been days since my system has been running on nothing but nausea and painkillers, gathering more and more contusions at every moment. I don’t believe I’m capable of putting anything through my mouth and actually keeping inside.

–I’ll pass. –I wave him off, bracing myself for a possible complaint and walking over to where he is lying down. –And you didn’t answer my question. Again.

–Hm. –J rolls his eyes, tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. There was a sigh of surrender, though, and his expression morphed into something much younger and tired. –We had to meet some people to make sure they knew we were to blame for the dagger, rather than you. It’s not like they were happy about it, you know.

–Why did you even have to take this thing? –I press on, leaning over so I can take a good look at the bandages.

The one around his arm seemed a bit too tight, but it was definitely tied in place. On the other hand, the one on his chest didn’t even have adhesive tape around it. The blood stained gauze was so thin and ineffective that I could almost see the poorly stitched wound under it.

–It was sent here for someone else. –He answered dismissively, squirming a little under my inspection. –What are you doing?

–Did you clean that right?

The man immediately paused at my words. I could feel his eyes searching for mine and it took me some strength to take them from the bandages to actually meet his stare. That last time something like this happened and we looked at each other like that, it was a very awkward situation.

–What? –I arch my brows, trying my best to look unaffected.

J doesn’t answer to my question, but I know that we’re both thinking about the same thing: why the hell am I worrying about this?

–Nothing. –He shakes his head, looking back to the ceiling. –Yeah, it’s clean.

–Is it, though? If I can see this much clotted blood, it’s not really that clean. –I talk back, tilting my head the way he usually does. –And you need to tape this thing right; you can’t just waltz around with it loose like that. This is _so_ going to get infected.

–I know all of this.–He rolled his eyes and sighed again. –I just wanted to lie down and relax for a while. I’m not gonna die in ten minutes, _chill_.

–Do you want me to fix it for you? –I offer before I can keep the words from leaving my mouth.

Not even twelve hours ago we were threatening each other, but I guess that the “kind and worried” inside me are used to speak louder when I don’t really want them to. J gave me that weird look again – the one that clearly means “ _what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”_

And once again, I pretended to not be affected at all by him, despite how wildly it made my heart jump. The lack of knowledge of what my limits are in these waters should make me feel wary of them, but instead, I just started to dive in deep to see how long I can go without drowning.

Which is a really dumb fucking logic, in case you were still wondering.

–Everything is on the bathroom. It’s the door next to the bedroom, you won’t get lost. –J gave in, bringing the cup of coffee back to his lips.

It was probably cold by now, but his impassive face didn’t show anything.

Walking back there was slightly easier. Either because my body was growing accustomed to being actively in pain or because the pills were kicking in, a tiny bit of the discomfort I had been feeling was practically fading away. On the other hand, a new pain was discovered: my fucking spine made me feel as if I was 70 or 80 years old.

The bathroom I found was small and no better than the rest of the apartment: it was crumbling to pieces. Inside the sink was a plastic bag with some first aid items, which I took without checking and brought back to the living room.

This time, J was sitting on the couch in great posture, the gauze gone and the cup of coffee nowhere in sight. The wound seemed to be cut in a clean straight line, although his poor stitching job made it look a lot more wrinkled. The cut was maybe four inches long, but seemed to be deep enough and the entire area around it was red.

–This is like fifteen seconds away from getting infected, _I told you_. You need to take ibuprofen. –I grumble, weirdly displeased with being right. –Let me clean it again.

I lower myself to sit in front of him, placing the bag on his lap and opening it so it was turned to me. The first thing I searched for was cotton and rubbing alcohol, to clean the cut and the reddened area.

In all honesty, I never got this close to touching an actual wound like this. The few things that I’ve seen before were either not so bad or at least being professionally treated by a doctor. You know, decently sewn, with no irritated and inflamed raw skin poking out and bleeding still.

I didn’t let any of that translate into my face, though. I held it in and reached for his chest with the cotton like it was nothing but an ordinary disturbance. You can’t really help anybody while freaking out yourself: you will just end up making an even bigger mess. The thing about it, though, was that the cut looked extremely frail and really fucking painful. I was afraid that even the lightest of touches would hurt like hell and do a lot more damage than help.

–Are you scared of anything?

 _Fuck_. His sudden words almost made me jump, which is an embarrassing reflex I’m happy to have controlled. His expression, which was initially skeptical, turned into something sly and smug. The proximity in between us didn’t make it any easier to deal with those eyes right in front of me, when they looked like… Well.

–Now I am! –I exclaimed, trying to not take as deep of a breath as my body was asking for. –Could you _not_ do that?

–Did you ever do this before? –J pressed on, with a smirk growing of his face. –It’s ok if you d…

–Yes, I did. I just never seen anything sliced down by a butcher before. –I rolled my eyes and leaned in again, diverting my eyes from his and focusing on his chest. –I don’t want to hurt you, that’s all.

–It’s ok, I’m not made out of sugar. –He says in a soft encouraging tone that surprises me just as much as the previous skeptical interruption. –Go ahead.

I dab the end of the cut tentatively, but much more confidently than before. The vigilante doesn’t flinch at all, so I take that as an incentive to keep going. Every time I bring the cotton piece to the injury, it comes back soaked in even more blood than before, the drops of alcohol that come out of it rolling down his torso in red lines.

Maybe I should feel uncomfortable or out of place – this is an awkward situation, but for some reason, I feel at ease. Red Hood’s calm breathing and relaxed posture makes me believe that he feels about the same way.

The simple yet delicate task takes a lot more time than what I expected. But soon enough the dry, dark blood comes off and I can clean the cut for what it is: angry skin getting inflamed. I dig in between the stitches with an alcohol coated cotton swab, which finally makes him squirm, but I don’t let that stop me (and he doesn’t ask for it either). I didn’t try to redo those stitches, though, because that was a little too far from my jurisdiction, but I applied medicine carefully and did a pretty decent bandage on his chest.

–I guess that’s not too bad. –A sigh of relief escapes my lips, as I arch my body back to try to soothe some of the pain on my spine. –But you really need to start taking ibuprofen. Do you have any in here?

–Yeah, I have some. –The vigilante nods, looking down to inspect the bandage. –That’s nice. Thank you.

–You’re welcome. –I nod back, taking my eyes off the decently patched wound on his chest and searching for his face. – _J_.

I lend enough emphasis on the single letter to get his attention. Once his eyes are back on mine, I arch one of my brows and hope to god that he will get what I’m trying to say – which is: _what the fuck_ is “J” supposed to mean? Is that the initial of a name? And is that a real name or does the scar has anything to do with it? Hell; did he get that scar to symbolize that initial?

Meanwhile, the “Red Hood” is quite self-explanatory.

–What? –Cynical, the vigilante mirrors my questioning expression to feign confusion, but I know a little better than that.

The thing is that no other creatures lie as much as teenagers. Due to my experience as a high school teacher, I’m as qualified as a lie detector, by now.

–You know what I’m talking about. –I roll my eyes, hoping that this doesn’t drive us back to that very tense discussion we had last night. – _J_. Is that really a name?

–I’m n…

–Don’t worry, I’m not asking for you ID. –I cut him off, feeling my heartbeats speeding up again. –Just give me an actual name that I can call you without feeling like I’m being completely fooled.

J keeps staring at me with that blank expression that is just as maddening as looking straight into the red helmet. The vigilante leans in slowly, bringing out the same heavy air of defiance that we both breathed in yesterday.

–You want a name? –He asks in a much lower tone.

My body’s immediate reaction to his words was to bristle. Being around him, either J or Red Hood, is just a matter of testing how far do our limits go and how high will I be taken by the adrenaline, once I start getting the results to that first question.

He likes pushing back, though. Otherwise, we wouldn’t spend so much time bickering, threatening each other and arguing.

–That’s exactly what I’m asking for.

–Hm… No. –J gave me a small smile that framed his cynical expression perfectly. –I already gave you one.

–You didn’t give me a name, you gave me a letter. –I contest, leaning forward as well.

It is not a very good idea when you’re sharing an adrenaline high with a person you should probably be wary of. I couldn’t see my own face, but I could tell that it mirrored the look on J’s: defiance, spite, tension, eagerness and fucking anticipation. Despite my now common dangerously fast heartbeats, I couldn’t bring myself to take my eyes off his or walk away, almost as if I had been bewitched.

Being irrational is something new for me, but rain is nothing when you’re already wet. The vigilante looked like he had been thinking about the very same thing – he brought his right hand to my neck, but I leaned in before he could pull me into the kiss himself.

My brain barely registered it when his lips clashed against mine, hungry, possessive and relentless. In any normal day, I would have rested my hand against his chest, but it was too soon to forget about the ugly cut and the recently done bandage. By reflex, my right hand reached for his waist, while the other one went for his thigh.

It wasn’t a sweet kiss, but it was entrancing and completely inflammable – a matchstick dropped above our heads could easily set our bodies on fire. Not surprisingly, Red Hood wasn’t very soft or slow: he was demanding and ravenous, inciting me to push back. His hand came up to grasp my waist and pull me forward, and I didn’t put up a single shred of resistance. I moved with him, straddling his lap and bringing both my hands to his neck, while his own came down to hold my waist and my hips.

Kissing him felt like the world was burning, my lungs were empty and I couldn’t force myself to stop in the middle of the chaos, because it was intoxicating and _good_.

Maybe too soon, I had to back off from him to breathe – we were both gasping like we had been under water for minutes. And breathless was a nice look on him: the flushed face, the hooded eyes, the parted mouth… I leaned in to kiss him again.

But he didn’t let me: two long fingers in front of my lips stopped me right before I got what I was craving for.

–Jason.

And to be honest, it didn’t make any sense to me. Probably because my mind wasn’t functioning properly, I had to lean back and actually ponder over what the hell that was supposed to mean. Jason? What even…

And then… Of course: fucking Jason. _J_ for Jason.

When this man isn’t walking around as Red Hood, the wanted criminal accused of murder, torture, violence, terrorism and vandalism, he is a _man_ who goes by the name of Jason.

–I thought you said “no”. –It’s the only thing I manage to say, in a whisper.

Saying those words out loud felt weird: like he had just shared with me a secret I wasn’t even supposed to think about for too long. For some reason, it was also a secret I knew I was going to keep. I don’t know why, but something in my mind keeps convincing me that blind loyalty is the best thing I can do, even though it makes no sense at all.

–I know yours. –He shrugs, taking the fingers from my lips and bringing them to my waist. –Fair trade.

 _Ah_. Except this is not a fair trade at all and I shouldn’t really be here. I should have gotten away from him and all of this nonsense the second things started getting weird; I shouldn’t be here, kissing this complete stranger every other newspaper warn the citizens about.

– _Jason_. –I test it out, almost scared that if I say it too loud, I might be doing something wrong. –I… I think I need to go home.

The blank expression on his face didn’t do anything to help me understand what was going on inside his mind. The calm look on his eyes, though, was slightly more comforting than that.

–Yeah. – _Jason_ nods, moving his hand from my hips and placing them on the couch. –Go get your things.

And I didn’t have to be told twice. Despite the pains all over my body, I got off him as quickly as possible, avoiding to look on his eyes. That would probably feel way too awkward after everything that I did and my confidence only goes so far. Right now, it isn’t running at it’s highest point.

In fact, I could finally feel the familiar chest pain from my speeding heart. I got back to the bedroom that I spent the night on in a rush and didn’t even sit down to put my shoes on, which resulted in some intricate balance work. Before going to sleep, I had left my phone under the pillow, which I didn’t forget – I took it and tossed it inside my bag.

Walking back into the living room, I noticed that Jason had changed into jeans and a grey t-shirt in such short time that it was almost unbelievable. He was leaning on the table and staring at the wall with a blank expression on his face, the motorcycle keys in hand.

–You’re done? –He asked without looking at me. –Got your things?

–Yeah. We can go. –I nod, crossing my arms and diverting my eyes to the locked door.

Not surprisingly, it’s kind of hard to look him in the eyes.


	12. the intruder

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M HERE! HEY. I told a few people that there was going to be some smut here, but I freaked out trying to write it because I didn't know how to undress Jason (???) - you know, with all of those Red Hood garnments. It took me a WHILE and then it was pretty late and I didn't want to wait another day before posting the chapter, so hm...  
> I talked to my friend, though, and he totally teached me how to undress him [insert here my blushing, mortified face] so I know how to do it now. Everything is going to be ok, long live Enrico.  
> Either way. I don't like this chapter a lot, but I hope you guys do.  
> Tell me anything, if you'd like.  
> Bye!

And it was followed by five very long days of the most deafening, disturbing, sickening silence.

From the day the vigilante dropped me off in the front of my building and left, I haven’t heard a word or seen anything out of the absolute ordinary – and that, won’t you believe me, ended up being actually unnerving.

Some people usually get weird reactions to even weirder events. You know, how veterans snap sometimes, convinced that they’re still amidst a conflict; young adults freaking out because they think that they forgot to do school homework; single people who had a bad break-up, reaching out in the bed for another body. Sometimes, it’s simply a constant impression that something is about to happen – a sort of crippling anxiety that keeps you wary of everything at all times.

I heard a cat meowing somewhere.

After five days, I realized that I was so hyper-aware of everything, that I heard my neighbor’s cat meowing. The thing about it is that my apartment is three floors above his and I know for sure that Miss Rita is the only cat in the entire building because generally, animals are not allowed and Miss Rita is the owner’s pet.

From what I _googled_ , it sounded a lot like post-traumatic stress disorder, but to be fair, that long-ass term seemed like an exaggeration.

Some of the symptoms I found on the internet were emotional numbness, agitation, distress, irritability, concentration deficit, flashbacks, nightmares… And, well. Come to think of it, I was definitely experiencing all of that. But it didn’t feel real enough and other than that, I couldn’t even think of what to do to deal with it.

You can’t really find a therapist and go tell them that your life has been a mess since you met a wanted vigilante; that you haven’t seen him since the two of you kissed and shared secret identities and he dropped you off on your home. There’s no best way to say that one of the things that makes you anxious the most is the constant impression that you’re being watched by him, but when you turn around, there’s nothing there – but it just makes you disappointed rather than relieved or paranoid.

 _Jason_. The man feels like a ghost, and if the goose bumps on my skin mean anything, it’s almost as if he’s still haunting me.

I never gave my mom _that_ call. To be fair, I didn’t even talk to anyone since I got back home: my phone was charged simply so I could spend four to five minutes in each social media I’m on and find out what’s new. Other than that, I just spent five days on my own, with locked doors and windows, eating approximately a meal a day and taking turns in between watching the TV and watching my back.

The first call I received came from a number that I certainly did not expect at all: my late employer, Mr. Davidson.

Before picking up, I tried to think back to everything I signed, picked up and fixed before leaving the school, searching for whatever kind of mistake that I could have left behind. That had to be the only plausible reason as to why that obtuse motherfucker was reaching out to me a full week after being dismissed, in the lunch time – not that I was eating anything, for that matter. But it was lunch time nevertheless.

–Y/N L/N. –I inform, my voice sounding so harsh and intimidating I might as well just have ended the call.

“ _–Miss L/N?_ –Mr. Davidson’s tremulous tone came through on the phone. _–I’d like to talk to you about your place on the Gotham Academy.”_

–Yeah, I already know my place: non-existent. I was fired last week. –I roll my eyes, wishing that little man would be able to sense that gesture.

_“–Yes, that’s what I’d like to discuss with you. I realize that the decisions that were made last week were completely erroneous and the institution would be thrilled to have you back on the faculty.”_

–Are you really saying that you want to hire me back?

_“–I… Well. Well, yes, that’s what I mean to do.”_

–Oh. Yeah, I get it. No. I’m not coming back to your school.

_“–Oh, Miss L/N, that’s great! Could you… Wait. Did you say that you were not coming back?”_

–That’s exactly what I said. I was fired last week because my ex’s mother bribed you to do so, and you _agreed_ with it. I not sure of what kind of teachers you have worked with so far, but I don’t want to go back to your school. Or work with you again.

“ _–Miss L/N! Miss L/N, we are so sorry! That was a horrible mistake that will not be repeated. I understand that you might not want to come back, but our students have complained greatly over your loss and we had parents reaching out to ask about it.”_

–And did you tell them the reason why you fired me in the first place? –I press on, starting to enjoy the clear panic that comes from him.

_“–Miss L/N, I must repeat how sorry I am, this makes me very embarrassed. I’d like to say that the institution is willing to double your salary if you accept to reintegrate our faculty._

And I accepted; of fucking course I did. Gotham doesn’t have a lot of schools, and in between looking for a job in another place or accepting a doubled salary in the best school on the city, there is only one smart choice to make.

My income is the only income that I can rely on. I have debts, I need to pay my bills, maintain my apartment and I have to save some money to move somewhere better and keep a decent lifestyle. While it is not the most honorable thing to do, I like my independence and that money will definitely do a thing or two for me.

The ever so pathetic Mr. Davidson told me to come over on the afternoon and the list of documents I was supposed to take in order to start the process of rehiring. With all the things that happened during the week, I hadn’t even opened the folder with those documents since the very day I was fired on the first place. While it wasn’t heartwarming, it definitely saved me some work.

The man barely had it in him to look me in the eyes from the moment I walked into his office, to the moment I left, feeling as victorious as the notable Cher Horowits when she plays those two helpless teachers into making life easier for her.

For the first time in god knows how long, I actually worked something on my favor – and the change felt great.

The last time I walked on the school grounds felt horrible and humiliating, but this time, it was invigorating and even the sky seemed brighter (even though it was very much cloudy, terribly grey and threatening to rain down on me like a storm).

Looking straight to the front gates, I didn’t notice the person approaching me – and this time, when I felt the feather-light touch on my shoulder, I actually jumped and screamed.

Embarrassingly loud.

–Wow! It’s me! –The boy jumped back, as startled as I was myself.

This time around, it was _only_ Damian Wayne.

I had to sigh in relief, feeling my heart getting back to it’s very fast rhythm: I should probably start seeing a doctor. Maybe when those paychecks start coming in and the school reinstates my health insurance.

–Damian! You scared me. –I say, bringing a hand to clasp my chest.

–I’m sorry! I didn’t know that you… –The boy had both hands raised in surrender, looking exasperated. –I’m sorry.

–Oh my… It’s ok. Relax. –I shake my head, trying to catch my breath. –It’s good to see you, kid.

–It’s good to see you too. –He said, shoving both hands on his pockets and carefully coming closer to me. –So… Are you coming back to the school?

Hm. I wonder which students and parents complained to the academy; what did they really do and say to have them running to hire me back, even if it meant that they’d have do double my salary. Mr. Davidson acted as nervously as if someone had pointed a gun at his weirdly big head; never have I ever seen a man act and sound so apologetic over a doing of his own.

–I… How do you know?

–Hm… Isn’t it obvious? –He tilts his head to the side with an expression that is almost… Cynical?

_Oh, no, no, no._

–No, it isn’t. How do you know? –I press on, crossing my arms and putting my intimidating-teacher-look in place. – _Hm?_

–Huh… Well… You know, the substitute teacher was awful; all he did was read straight from the books and look like a zombie. –Damian cringes, crossing his arms and looking to his feet, in his shy teenage boy fashion. –So… Some of us talked to other teachers and to the principal as well. There was parent-teacher conference last friday, so some parents came over and complained as well. Like my dad. He told Mr. Davidson to get you back.

No fucking way. Bruce Wayne? Did… You know, _Bruce Wayne_ came all the way from either his mansion or his huge business building to tell off his son’s principal? And tell anybody, ever, to hire _me_?

Now that’s…

–This is insane. –I breathe out, uncrossing my arms and letting them fall to the sides.

And for that matter, my body still hurts, but it’s incomparably better than what it was like last week. No more nausea and now my hips only hurt when I sit in a particular position – as for my spine and all of those headaches… Well, as I said, let’s wait for the health insurance.

–No, it’s ok. You’re a really good teacher. And we… Huh, we… –Damian cringed again, his face going red. –Wanted to have you back.

– _Aw_ , that’s so sweet. –I smile to the boy, who looks like he might as well run to dig a hole on the ground and jump inside. –It’s nice to be back, Damian, I like being your teacher just as much.

–That’s a… _Oh_. –Damian interrupted himself, eyes shifting to follow something that seemed to appear on his vision shield, behind me. – _They_ already came to pick me up.

–Who? –I ask, although I know that it’s probably one of his siblings or the man that works in the family.

I turn around to see what his eyes were focusing on, and it’s indeed a black car that I have seen Damian get inside before – most of my students have people come to pick them up, and Bruce Wayne’s son is not an exception. Humbling discipline only goes so far, I believe, and there is no way in hell that the youngest son of the richest guy on the area would walk around in Gotham.

I wonder how high would a thug ask for if they ever got to kidnap this kid.

–Either my butler or one of my brothers. –He shrugs, adjusting the backpack on his shoulders. –They are spending way too much time home, these days. But, yeah… So, you’ll be back soon?

–In two days. –I nod with a bright smile, feeling way too pleased with getting to this corrupt place. –Now go, don’t leave them waiting. Goodbye, Damian.

–Goodbye, _teacher!_ –He waved at me with that beautiful smile that hardly ever get’s to his face.

I wave back until he turns around to get to the car – then I cross my arms and watch him go. Damian doesn’t walk there in a rush, but his lanky teenage boy legs were long enough that he got to the sidewalk fast. He reached out, grasped the door handle, pulled and…

And then, things got weird.

Damian swung the door open to get inside and there was this brief breach of time in between the moment in which he sat down and closed the door – and in that very second, I saw the driver staring right back at me, green eyes wide.

Jason.

It was gone as soon as the sleek black door was closed and the car drove off into the main avenue. The shock was still there, though. The air around me suspended as if it was about to drop with a very loud thud; oxygen hard to take in.

He was there. I know it was him; though my eyes often fail me, they haven’t reached to the point of raw lunacy yet. So far, it’s just blurry images that make me think that I should schedule a visit to an optician.

As to why… Why in the world would Damian even be close to that… Oh, _the smile_.

I know that smile; I have for a while now and it has been bugging me for the longest time. That weird sensation of déjà vu, constantly ringing on my head and telling me to look harder into it – it’s because I know that smile. The smile and the head tilt, from a boy who runs around the city in a colorful costume, under the name of Robin. Robin, Batman’s sidekick.

 _Fuck_.

The size, the hair, the voice, the gestures, the way he moves... Damian _is_ Robin. And I have seen Robin and Red Hood together before – and I have also seen Red Hood with Batman. And if… Who’s Jason supposed to be? Why would Damian lie about it?

No, scratch that, that’s pretty obvious. But is… Is there any way that Jason is, in fact, his brother? Or is Damian just running around the town unsupervised with his vigilante buddy after class?

Now that’s… There’s no way that I’m actually _not_ getting involved.

And I know – I know that I only got my job back and started to feel a little more human, that this is not at all my business and there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. I can’t go find Robin, grab him by the pulse, drag him to detention and then call his father to snitch on what he has been doing. And while every single inch of my body tells me to close my eyes, erase the memory and move on with my life, there’s something else on my head going off with an angry alarm that screams “go get your student away from that man!”

And boy, is that an unnerving alarm.

I didn’t have J’s number anymore. The paper was long lost inside the Gotham River and I had deleted my phone’s records right after coming back home _that day_.

I knew something solid, though: a stolen address in the middle of Old Gotham, far enough from the police department.

There weren’t any cabs near the school, but I walked for long enough until I found a place to hail one. The driver frowned at the address, but he didn’t say anything about it, so I took that as a win.

Meanwhile, I felt as if my heart was about to stop at any given moment.

And what if I didn’t find Damian? What could I possibly do? Call his father, the richest man in town, to spit my theory that his youngest son is a vigilante? That would probably get me a very expensive calumny lawsuit or dead in a ditch.

Rich folks aren’t to be trusted and that’s a fact.

I mean. What about Bruce Wayne? Could he possibly know about any of this? Is there a single chance that the man didn’t notice his teenage son going off on the streets of Gotham in the weirdest hours? Did he ever catch a glimpse of the bright costume?

I mean – can anybody miss that?

The taxi driver ended up charging more because of the location I made him get into, which I didn’t contest, although I wasn’t much nicer to him than the usual.

It was almost 6pm, the streets emptying themselves fast and the sun going down on the skyline. Surely not the time I’d like to be around here on, but this is the only place that I know; the only information I have. The only link to wherever that boy is right now, to whatever he managed to get involved with.

The invaded store that Red Hood made into a safe house: hidden in a shady alley inside an already narrow street.

I didn’t want to be there – I didn’t want to have a single thing to do with those affairs. I’m pretty sure that I swore off adventures for the next fifty years, in case I live that long, but my feet were dragging themselves further without even considering any of my hesitating thoughts.

The roller door looked the same, but the lock located on the floor was gone.

The horrible noise from that thing was still fresh in my mind, and I knew very well that I couldn’t possibly sneak inside without being heard. Crouching down and touching the end of the door, my mind kept repeating a chant to fucking leave it alone, turn around and go home.

But I didn’t. I curled my fingers around the lock and pulled it open, cringing to the door’s creak.

The last time I’ve been here during the daytime, this space was a garage; now, it looks too empty to be anything. But I went on with it, going for the metal stairs and getting to the second metal door, which was unlocked as well.

I pushed the door open and walked inside, anticipating to see anything other than what I actually saw, which was _nothing_.

The room was completely empty. No couch, no blankets, no table, no curtains – not a single trace that there was a man living here not even a week ago. The windows were closed and the floor was almost dusty, as if there has been enough time for that to happen. The walls around me felt cynical, as if they were laughing at me and mocking my search party for a boy who certainly can take care of himself a lot better than what I actually can.

Despite my survival instincts telling me otherwise, I walked further and looked for the bedroom that I slept on during that night. Like pretty much everything else, I found the door open and didn’t have to walk inside to see what I already expected: it was empty as well. Even the bed was gone – almost as if that entire night had been a hallucination.

That’s more or less when the circumstance kicked in on my system and I decided to act like a reasonable human being – I got out of that place as quickly as possible, only stopping to roll the door back down. I practically run out of that street until I found another taxi driver willing to stop for me. I went back home.

I don’t know why this was so surprising to me. These people can’t trust anybody; why would he trust me? Or is this what he usually does? Crumbling safe houses that become ghost apartments in the meantime of a week – or less, it’s not like I came back in the middle of the week to pay a visit. I wouldn’t know.

My hands were still shaking as I reached out to pay the taxi driver. By the time I got back home, it was dark already; somewhere after 6pm. One way or another, I knew that it was perfectly safe inside, which was good enough, considering all of the things that have happened to me on the past couple of weeks. Being locked inside my apartment all by myself has become a version of heaven to me.

Feeling nauseous again, I took a quick shower and heated pasta from two days ago – this is a godless city and I don’t give a damn about anything.

I believe that “numb” is the word.

Like pretty much every other day that preceded this one, I ate alone in utmost silence. The food on my plate tasted blank and stale, along with the nausea warning me to stop eating before it made me throw up – but I didn’t stop. I forced myself to eat everything, despite the weird flavor on my tongue, then downed everything with some of the wine that I mostly use to marinate my food.

Despite being early, I dragged myself to bed and after painfully long minutes of turning around without even being able to close my eyes, I reasoned that maybe all of those layers around me were the problem – so I took my clothes off.

And I’m not going to lie: the tactic worked for a while. The slightly less restrained mobility helped me relax and when I finally closed my eyes to sleep, I actually _did_. Sadly, it only worked for so long. My eyes snapped open suddenly – for no reason at all. The bedroom was colder than usual, the covers felt too thin and my body was going off like what I believe a cat feels like when it sees an opponent.

Unreasonably alarmed.

I reached for my phone and checked the hours: it was barely midnight. Although it felt like a single second, I had actually slept through some hours and once it downed on me, I was as awake as ever. Knowing that I wouldn’t be able to go back to sleep anytime soon, I kicked the covers away and got up from the bed.

The cold that hit my naked body gave me goose bumps immediately. Home alone, I wasn’t going to get dressed all over again, so I reached for the large white shirt that I sometimes sleep in and slid it through my arms and head. Deeming it warm enough, I grabbed my phone and went for the door.

Maybe a snack and a movie would do to make me want to sleep again.

The rest of the apartment was as dark as I had left it like before going to bed. I almost dismissed it and walked to the kitchen, but then, right before I turned, my eyes caught something that made my heart jump (and almost fail).

A pair of LED eyes was staring at me in the dark.

I didn’t scream, but a perfectly humiliating noise inevitably left my lips.

–Fuck no! –I whispered, clutching my heart, which was already lapping furiously on my chest. –Fuck… No!

I squinted in the dark, trying to see it better. Focusing, it was easier to make something out: Red Hood was sitting in the middle of the couch, legs crossed and both arms stretched to the sides, as comfortable and at ease as he could possibly be. As if this was his place and I was the intruder.

–Hi there. –He said in a playful tone, raising a hand and waving at me mockingly. –Did I wake you up?

Shit, did he? I mean, why else would I jolt awake for no reason? My bedroom door was open: I probably noticed a noise, or even the inexplicable cold could be blamed. The fact is that I did, and while my mind was burning with fearful thoughts of how easy it might be to break into my apartment and how defenseless I actually am, none of it seemed to matter. They were spinning too fast, there was no way that I could worry about any of it for too long.

–What the fuck are you doing here? –I choke out in an enraged whisper, coming closer to him with closed fists.

Not that I was about to start swinging them or anything like that.

–What? You don’t like unexpected visits? –He questions, without moving from his position on the couch. –Hm, that’s funny. Imagine what I thought when you broke inside the apartment.

–What?

–Huh? It hasn’t even been twelve hours yet, did you already forget? –Red Hood sneered at me, finally getting up and inching closer to me as well. –The safe house. What the fuck were _you_ doing there?

Like that other time, his words made me want to scream and jump on his neck, but I held myself together because I know that I can’t. And other than that, as much as I can hear my neighbors, I know that they can hear me. So for the sake of all good, I take a deep breath, which is loud and shaky, before going back to whispering.

–I was looking for my student. Where did you take him? –I finally say something that made him back off; and he did. – _Wait_. Where is he?

–Right now? Probably doing homework on his bedroom. Why is that? –He crosses his arms in front of his chest, still bearing that annoying tone of someone who’s trying to pick up a fight.

That is – my overall tone.

–Why were you there? –I insist, walking in the step that he had taken back. –And take this thing off when you’re talking to me.

The fucking helmet. I didn’t really want to scold him out of it, but it seemed like the only viable option, since he wasn’t prompting that action by himself and looking into the red metal only ever made me feel like a dumbass. Because of my authoritative tone, I didn’t really expect the sassy vigilante to actually obey me, but he did.

He raised his hands to unclasp the helmet and took it off, letting me see his face once again.

Red Hood gone and Jason in – and I can’t tell which one I like better. I can remember, though, a time in which I was actually fond of Red Hood instead of truly angered by him.

–You should have done a little research before. –He prompts, giving me that know-it-all look that I despise. –You would have learned that he is a lot more of my responsibility than what it is yours.

–He is just a kid! –I growl to him, raising my hand to point at his chest (although I really wanted to slap his face instead).

–We all were! –Jason talks back, towering over me. –Just because you’ve seen a thing or two doesn’t mean that all of a sudden you’re part of it. Now, forget this and go back to your life like the good girl you are.

And… Huh… You see, I hardly ever have a problem with my temper. I’m usually in control of everything and when I’m not, I argue my way into it. I know what my limits are, I understand how far I can take things until they get harmful and dangerous. To prove my point, I lived as far as twenty four years in the blandest way possible, because I always held myself in place to avoid tricky situations.

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I was way more shocked than Jason, when I used both my hands and my right knee to push him back into the couch. Shocked that I did it and that it actually worked – that’s one heavy man, I can say for sure.

For the time span of five painful seconds, we just stared at each other without saying anything. His face looked surprised and mine, as I felt, horrified.

My brain tried to make up what would happen next – what could either of us do to follow up to this? And I guess that by the lack of chance that this would even happen on the first place, I honestly could not think of a single thing to do to fix it.

So by the lack of better option, I did the one thing I wanted to do that I actually held the power off.

I walked closer to the couch and raised my right knee, resting it on the cushion by his side. I held the almost shameful eye contact, hoping that his eyes would convey enough consent for me to go forward – and they did. In seconds, his weirded out expression almost became blank, but the dark look on his eyes said enough.

I moved my hands to his neck and used it to support my weight as I moved my body to straddle his lap. As soon as I did so, I felt the rough material of his clothes straight against my skin and for once remembered that under the large shirt I had been wearing, I was completely naked. In between us, nothing but whatever he wore, and the feeling was hard to miss.

Before I had any time to feel embarrassed about it, his hands came up to hold me as well; one of them snaked it’s way around my neck and urged me forward to kiss him, which I did. The other one came to hold my hips, clutching the fabric of my shirt with his fingers and exposing me even more.

Even though my mind was a little lost on the growing heat in between our bodies, I wondered if he had figured out already that I was pretty much bare on top of him – and I also wondered if he would have a reaction to it.

A much less bashful part of me would like to see a reaction and urged my body to anticipate him. And almost as if he was able to read my mind, Jason moved his hands again: up to my side, cupping my breast so softly it almost made me press into him; down my back, his fingers expertly wandering on the line on my spine, making me shiver.

My own hands left his neck to the collar of his jacket, which I didn’t touch for too long before pushing away and stripping him off it.

Sitting still started to become impossible: as my organism took in what I was doing, it urged me to shift. I wanted to move my hips and feel him against my sex, barely registering what I was even doing to start with. But as I first centered my weight on my thighs to move, I felt it as they straddled the guns attached to his holsters.

And it made me freeze.

Truth be told, I don’t know a thing about guns, but I know how easily they go off and kill people accidentally – I don’t want to end up on the news as the girl who died shot in the vagina (although in Gotham, I probably wouldn’t be the first). The irrational part of me enjoyed the feeling of the cold metal pressing against my skin, dangerous, and wanted to move anyway; but the fear spoke louder and made stay still.

Jason didn’t look down to my legs, but he looked at me like he knew what made me stop – that and my legs were probably pressing the guns into his own thighs as well.

–Do you want to stop? –He asked, relocating his hands to my hips, slowly moving his fingers to caress my sides. –We can stop now.

But I don’t want to. I probably should – I definitely should. Not even three weeks ago, I was engaged to a completely different man and I didn’t even think about having sex with anyone else but him for the past five years. And now, even though everything that I have seen should make me want to shy away, I just want to press forward and go on. Jason is intoxicating and I want to feel him take my body away from me.

That and I might be wet already.

–No. –I shake my head, trying to take a deep breath. – _No_.

–Are you sure? –Jason insisted, tightening his grip on me.

–Yeah. –I nod, moving my left hand to cup his face gently and leaning in to kiss him again, this time much slower. –Just put these guns away before I shoot myself. Please.

–Ok, can see about that. –Jason gave me a wide, knowing smile, still caressing my hips. –Let’s get it off.


	13. It's a bright shade

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello. so I've done this. It's pure smut from the beggining to the end - and I don't know how to feel about it. This is my first time writing something like this so. Hm. I'd like some feedback. Let's say I do more of it later on; what kind of things should I add or remove? Change? What's bad or good? I honestly need a word.  
> This was so hard to write. Like. Jesus.  
> Cringe warning.  
> go ahead hope you like this

To take off the helmet was one thing – to take off his clothes, on the other hand, was a much more complex process than what I had anticipated.

To start with, I backed off on his lap and parted my legs wider, to give him access to the holsters on his thighs. Jason unbuckled the leather straps on his legs and waist and then pulled them away, setting the guns to the sides. When I leaned in again, meaning to take off his shirt, I realized that, well… I had no idea of how to do it.

He had more of those straps going on around his torso, as well as under his arms. The thing that covered his chest and arms felt hard, almost like armor, which I also didn’t see any way to take off – his gloves were tucked inside it and his boots also looked like they were stuck in place by leather and metallic things.

–How even… –I close my eyes, feeling the heat rushing to my face. –Do I take this off?

–Being patient and careful. –The vigilante smirked at me, taking my hands from my own thighs and setting them on top of the metallic clasps on each side of his shoulders. –Give it a try.

They weren’t as self-explanatory as I’d like them to be – it was hard to push and I had to fidget with them for a while before figuring it out. Once they popped, I slid it off his shoulders and it fell on the couch along with the metal pauldrons. Jason took off the gauntlets by himself, and he naturally did it a lot faster than what I could have done.

I wandered my fingers along the chest piece, trying to figure out how to take it off. It disappeared under his pants, but I didn’t feel anything on his shoulders or his back; another clasp to help me undo it.

–And this? –I prompted, resting my hands on his chest; on top of the red bat. –How?

–It’s a bulletproof vest. –He answers, propping his arms on my thighs to take off his gloves, bringing them dangerously close to my center. –After this.

I observed as he pulled at the thick material, seemingly slower than what it should have been. Perhaps a little too late, I realized what was happening: Jason was trying to test my patience (although some might call it _teasing_ ). A part of me wanted to give in and respond to it like the desperate bitch that I definitely felt like, but I held myself in place; while my dignity is certainly not intact, it still has some weight on my conscience.

As soon as the black gloves were gone, I reached to the fabric under his belt and pulled at it, but the thing didn’t move at all. Growing even more impatient, almost to the point of exasperation, I looked up to him to search for some kind of answer – and Jason only smirked back, with a mischievous glint on his bright green eyes.

–I said _patience_. –He mocked, reaching behind his neck and pulling at the collar.

As it seemed, the vest wasn’t tied anywhere, I just didn’t have the strength in my arms to take it off his body the same way he did. As it came off, I brought my hands to his stomach, feeling his hard muscles and scarred skin on my fingers as I slid them up to his chest again.

–How many layers left? –I teased, leaning in to kiss him once more.

Jason placed his hands on my knees, sliding them up through my thighs slowly, snaking under my shirt until they finally settled on my hips again.

–You don’t have many, do you? –He whispered and lowered his head to kiss my neck, tightening the grip on my body.

Jason’s lips were are hot, as bad as his skin and his flaming palms, which feel like burning steel against my skin. His touch was possessive and hard, while the kisses he left on my neck were soft and tender; and everything was irrevocably hot. It made me fidgety, breathing hard and urging to move again. There was a growing ache in between my legs that pleaded for attention and pressure, and all things considered, I was probably moments away from starting to drip on top of him.

Almost as if he was hearing my thoughts – or just reading my body, Jason propped the two of us up, holding my waist and my thigh.

All things considered, I guess it shouldn’t be so surprising that he could actually pull something like that. But it didn’t stop me from squealing, holding onto his neck and shoulders for fearful support.

And well, although Jason has never been to my apartment before – or so I hope, the small place is pretty much self-explanatory. The vigilante guided us both to my bedroom, which wasn’t much brighter than the living room; only illuminated by the borrowed light that came from the bathroom.

Jason deposited me on the center of the bed, resting his right knee on the mattress’s end and leaning into me – and I immediately reached for his neck, holding him back.

–Don’t you _dare_ step on my bed with these boots. –I threatened him, trying to convey the challenge in my eyes.

To be honest, I never know if any of it ever works on anyone, but I hope it’s effective. In response to me, Jason grabbed my neck as well and leaned in anyway, kissing me fiercely. Unlike mine, his hand was actually large enough to wrap itself around my throat and while he didn’t clutch me, he held me with enough pressure to assert, well… Domination.

Now, that’s a little more than what I’m used to. Giving in to anything or anyone is not my usual modus operandi, ever – I don’t think about it too hard, though, because I started this whole thing and after all, it makes me feel even hotter than before (but I don’t need to admit this to anyone other than myself and, as for now, Jason).

He supported his weight on the other hand, but his body was basically pressed against mine, anyway. My legs were parted to give him space, and despite how badly I was craving to buckle up and press myself against him, I forced myself to stay down. The things he still wore weren’t soft material and for that matter, I was very much wet.

–Jason. –I broke the kiss, breathless (which wasn’t solely because of the hand on my neck). –Take this off.

I rubbed my legs against his, testing out the material against my skin and trying to make a point. The vigilante rolled his eyes in response, but he complied to my plea anyway. While he backed off the bed to take off his boots and pants, I sat up and tugged at my shirt – never once it occurred to me that this shirt was one of the few that I had stolen from my ex along the years. This one was so old and had been under my possession for so long, that when I returned his things, I totally forgot that it was his on the first place.

And I had to be wearing it on my first time ever having sex with anyone after breaking up with him.

–Having second thoughts? –Jason questioned, breaking my diversion.

I looked at him: Jason is a big man. His muscles are as defined as they could possibly be, his skin is sun burned and scarred all over; it looks rough. He looks rough and I know that he _can_ be – and it makes me believe that this is either going to be the most disappointing sex that I’ve ever had or an unforgettable fuck that will probably ruin lots of experiences to me.

In the shadow of doubt, I rely on my very consistent wave of bad decisions and smile at him.

After all, I’m not mad enough to turn him down when I’m already pretty much naked and wet on my bed, legs opened and heart racing – I wonder what part of him even considered that I’d change my mind like this, and even then, I find some gratitude in it.

I appreciate the respect and the space – even though all we ever do is disrespect each other and invade private space in all means possible.

We held eye contact, but through my peripheral vision, I could see his hands working on his belt and the other straps around his waist – and as he took it off, I didn’t wait for a second longer before getting out of my shirt and throwing it across the room (I didn’t even want to remember what I had been wearing anymore).

It was perhaps a little too late to even think about shyness and being bashful, but I didn’t lower my eyes to look at _him_. Despite my curiosity, I didn’t want to be caught prying on his dick, even though this moment was as adequate as the action could ever get.

The second time Jason leaned into me, we were both fully naked and I could feel his entire body over mine, scars, skin, muscle and all. He kissed me just as passionately as before, taking my mind away from me once more.

Jason didn’t seem to have any sort of hesitation: his hands touched me as if they owned my body and he kissed me like I was his long missed lover – which I didn’t oppose to at all. Taking his fire as a clue, I raised my hips meet his and finally, finally, feel what I wanted to – but his hand travelled down to me and pressed me back into the mattress.

–Do you really have to be so impatient? –He asked with that amused smirk, moving his hand down to my center painfully slow.

–Are you surprised? –I arched my brow, resisting the urge to move my body to meet his fingers faster.

Fuck it, I’m impatient.

I’ve been so used to frustrated tension and useless anticipation that when I actually felt his fingers on my clit, I almost groaned in surprise. Despite his liking for teasing, the vigilante didn’t go as slow on me as I thought he would – he expertly circled my sex with just the right amount of pressure to make me gasp in instants.

Then, Jason suddenly slowed down and pushed his weight off me, which I almost contested, until I realized what he was actually doing. He started to move his own body lower into mine, placing one of my legs over his shoulder and holding the other one to the other side, spreading me wide open for him. When his tongue made contact with my clit, hot and provocative, I couldn’t hold back a moan. Jason explored me, tasting my sex confidently, almost hungry, picking the relentless pace that his fingers had left. And I could feel them wet, holding my thighs in place, and while I liked the feeling against my skin, I also wanted him to touch me again – I wanted to feel him inside me.

I didn’t want to display my desperation for him so clearly, though. So I pressed my lips shut and clung to the sheets under me, trying to control myself – and soon enough, as I started bucking and kicking, his fingers pressed down into my skin even harder and I wondered if this wasn’t enough already.

That would probably bruise later, but I liked it. My body was growing more and more squirmish, the things I felt enhancing my senses and taking away my rationality. Jason devoured me eagerly and the only cohesive thought my mind could form was a plea for more – which I might have voiced, but was too lost in my own pleasure to realize. And I didn’t want to be loud, keeping my neighbors in mind, but as close to the edge as I was getting, it was impossible to keep my mouth shut: I kept calling out his name, moaning and gasping for air.

–Jason! –I cried out, trying to take a deep breath.

The vigilante groaned, tightening his grip in response. My lower body was melting, a hot sensation pooling and threatening to explode at any given moment. I felt the orgasm building up slowly, making me even more desperate, curling my toes and pressing my feet into the mattress – the way he held me, I couldn’t move my hips, despite how badly I’ve been trying to.

Under the impression that it would still take a while, I sunk into the pillows to feel it out. But right when I did so, a sudden wave of ecstasy washed over me, violent euphoria exploding on my senses, making my vision go black in the already dark room. By instinct, my legs jerked to snap shut, but Jason held me in place, wide open – he didn’t stop playing with me, licking and sucking my abused nerves through my orgasm.

I moved my right hand down to touch his head – my initial intention was to pull, but once I felt his dark hair on my fingers, the idea dissolved and I let him go further however he pleased.

– _Jason!_ –I whined, noticing my body picking up on the instigation. –Jason, what’s… _What are you…?_ Come back here!

–You’re not even ready yet. –It’s the first thing he says, finally leaving my sex and raising his head to look at me.

–What do you even mean? –I sigh, dropping my head back in the pillow heavily. –Jason?

The fucking prick ignored me. Instead, he bowed again and kissed my sex slow and provocative. It sent a wave of shock through my body, making me shiver; and I moaned again. The dirty sound was growing on me: I’m hardly ever this loud and it was little awkward to be, but it didn’t feel bad at all.

Jason moved my leg from his shoulder, setting it to the side and bringing his weight up to meet mine again.

His eyes were dark: nothing of the abnormal glimmer, just obscure with lust, matching his expression perfectly. Jason looked wolfish, predatory and wild – just about the same way he felt like on me.

Saying nothing, I watched his face as he looked down to my sex, feeling his fingers travelling through my skin back to where they were on the first place. He touched my slit tentatively, almost hesitant, and looked back to me, as if he was looking for consent or some kind of encouragement to go forward – and I nodded, biting my lips.

Jason slid a finger into me slowly, seeming to enjoy feeling me out as badly as I did.

–Good? –He murmured, looking up at me with hooded eyes.

–More. –I whispered in response, closing my eyes to absorb the feeling entirely. – _Please_.

–You’re begging so soon? –The vigilante teased, smirking at me.

– _You fucking…_

Jason sharply slipped in a second finger before I could finish my insult. It made me shut up instantly, gasping, which was probably the reaction he was looking for.

–That good? –Jason mocked me again, curling his fingers inside of me and leaning in to bite my neck.

– _You fucking prick_... –Whimpering, I brought my left hand to the back of his neck. –Jason, I need…

–What? What is it that you need? –He challenged, raising his head again to look me in the eyes, devilish expression in place.

–Don’t make me say it. –I whispered, closing my eyes to escape from his gaze.

–Nah, you better. Say it. –He insisted, purposefully curling his fingers to hit _that_ spot again. –And look me in the eyes when you do.

– _Fuck, Jason_. –I whined and forced my eyes open, trying to refrain from blushing too hard. –I need you to fuck me right now.

–Hm. So dirty... –Jason whispered back, biting his lower lip.

I wanted to slap his face – in fact, I wanted to slap him so hard that I had to clench my fist and move it away to avoid just doing it. Jason noticed it, not surprisingly, if the perverse smirk on his face was to mean anything; and most importantly, he seemed pleased with himself.

That was more or less the last straw.

I punched his right shoulder hard, which probably didn’t really hurt, but was enough to make him back off – and then, I pushed his body away to roll over, getting on top of him. Both hands pressing him down by his shoulders, an effort that I knew Jason could easily brush off; but he didn’t.

–I fucking hate you. –I growled and grabbed his neck to kiss him.

Jason happily complied with a satisfied look in his face, bringing his hands back to hold my thighs and my hips, my waist, my breasts, my neck.

–Yeah? –He broke the kiss pulling me back by my neck. – _Show me_.

– _Fuck_. –I panted, enjoying the grip. –Fuck, Jason.

I released his neck and used both my hands to balance my body on top of his; I lowered one of them to touch him, curling my fingers around his dick as confidently as I could – pushed ahead by nothing but spite and want. Like pretty much the rest of his body, Jason was thick and large; and hard and hot. I also want to say “surprisingly so”, but that sounds a little too much like massaging his already enormous ego.

Jason was big and he was right: I wasn’t ready yet, but I was too damn stubborn to back off now – so I aligned him with my slit and pushed down a lot harder than what I should.

– _Fuck!_ –I don’t know who said it first, Jason or me; or maybe we said it at the same time.

He felt even bigger inside me – and I couldn’t help but think that it has been a very long time since I suffered any kind of pain in sex. I underestimated him; I did, filled with too much spite to help myself.

–Jason… –I bit my lip, blushing at the embarrassing whine.

The need for movement struck me again, even though the stretch wasn’t all too comfortable. But decided to do it anyway: placing my hands on his stomach to support myself, I tried moved my hips, but his hands came to my hips almost immediately, holding me in place.

–Don’t hurt yourself. –Jason warned in that authoritative tone of his.

Which is why I didn’t obey his command at all. Despite his tight grip on my body, I used my knees to prop myself forward; moving my hips in a circular motion and taking in the way he expanded inside of me.

The vigilante didn’t ease the hold at all, but once I had grown accustomed to him, it was impossible to back down.

– _Jason!_ –I moaned loud when I felt him brush against that spot and tried to angle myself to find it again; but I didn’t, because of the way he was holding me back. – _No!_ Jason! Please, let me…

I knew that it was loud and desperate, but I didn’t know how to do it any different – and once he eased his hands on my body, I started to ride him hard, completely gone. The longer I did it for, the discomfort dissolved; I slid up and down with ease, not minding at all the work on my legs.

And I heard the most beautiful sound that ever happened to reach my poor sinful ears: Jason let out a needy moan, eyes closed and mouth parted – to which I could only moan back, angling my hips the very same way I did before, trying to please him like that again.

On my clouded mind, all I could think about was to keep going, trying to make him feel good like that again and to appease the heat that was only growing wider and wider every single time I moved against his hips. And his hands wandered against my hyper sensitive skin, stroking and pressing down, exploring – making me see colors in the dark.

We moaned and groaned together like animals.

I didn’t think that I would have another orgasm – or that it would happen so fast, but I felt it coming, as my body only got more erratic the way it moved. Jason probably saw – of felt – it happening, so he sat up to support my weight and keep me in place. One of his arms hooked around my waist and he brought his free hand up to cradle the back of my neck, pulling me in for a kiss. And I was running out of air; it had been happening for a while now. The closer I got there, the harder it got to breathe and properly function, being consumed by the need for him and urging to cling to something.

My hands moved to grasp his chest and shoulders, my fingers too erratic to hold with as much strength as I wanted to. Jason broke the kiss and guided my head back so my neck was exposed for him; he leaned in again and sucked on my jugular, leaving kisses and bites all over my skin, just to go back to my jugular again.

With no more warning than what I had last time, I came hard with a loud cry.

I arched my back even more, eyes looking up but seeing absolutely nothing – instead, I saw red, the raw color blinding me, emerging from the unconditional shadows. And I could feel Jason under me, finding his own release right after I did, filling me up with his seed.

The spasms I felt were striking; he guided my body until I collapsed, my brain shutting down to simply _feel_.

By the time I finally came back to my senses, I noticed that my body was laid on the bed and that the limbs under me were gone; hands on each side of my hips, grounding me, besides the emptiness in between my legs. Hazy vision, I tried to see Jason’s face.

And there he was: bright eyes that shone abnormally bright in a predatory expression that I knew a bit too well.

Fuck.


	14. In new light

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!! Yes I'm late, yes this is horrible. I've been really busy these past few weeks and it was hard to write. Also I'm emotionally unbalanced. ALSO. I'm going to a halloween party tomorrow (saturday 26) and I'm going as Mermaid Man (yes, from spongebob) - I love costumes and I'm excite about it. Anyway...  
> There goes the chapter.

I guess that I shouldn’t be so concerned.

He didn’t stay for the night, which didn’t come across as a surprise at all. Barely seconds after I sat up on the bed, Jason received a call from someone whose name he did not drop, told me that Red Hood was needed somewhere, then dressed up as quickly as possible and left the apartment.

The whole thing happened to quickly that I barely had time to digest what had happened, which I guess could only have been for the better. Static, I silently watched him go, merely locking eyes before the door was closed – and locked between the two of us.

And naturally, it’s not like I could go back to sleep after that, and distracting myself with something silly probably wouldn’t help with anything – so I worked on the second thing on my list of responsibilities: the classes, to which I’d go back to on the following Wednesday. Luckily, the substitute teacher hadn’t messed up the schedule too hard, so I was most likely to pick up from where he had left.

After a quick, renewing shower, I sat on my table with papers, books and my goddamned binder, and started doing the one thing I know a lot about: working hard. And I did not sleep at all. Perhaps intentionally, I spent the entire day busying myself and preparing the lessons for the entirety of the month, getting ahead of things that I probably didn’t really have to.

Thinking about Johannes Gutenberg inventing the first printing press on the 15th century was a hell lot easier than reflecting upon the fact that I fucked Red Hood on my own bed.

And since we’re speaking of that matter, I didn’t even have his phone number for contact anymore. I mean – does anybody? And, you know, why would I? What else could I possibly want to talk about? Am I seriously even considering the possibility of a… _Whatever_. I’m not and I can’t – that’s not even a possibility. Jason is barely a civilian; and a criminal one, at that.

I slapped my own face hard and then placed both hands on the history book in front of me, trying to focus on the words written there rather than the thoughts going on in my head. I didn’t have time for that – besides, thinking too hard hurts and I’m not a fan of the pain that comes from self-inflicted suffering.

Ignorance is pure bliss and I love it.

That day, I only slowed down when it was time to sleep, so I could get up to work early in the morning.

The Wednesday was grey, foggy, cold and ugly. From the TV, I learned that there was nothing but bad news to be told: kidnappings, murders, robberies and vigilante apparitions. Also, some of the streets were blocked because there had been some conflict in between Batman and some of his foes, which might have wrecked four or five structures.

You know – like in any other ordinary day in Gotham City.

–You’re back! –The arts teacher cheered, with a big smile on her face.

–I’m back! Yay! –I mocked, sitting down beside her on the teacher’s room.

Despite the bad traffic outside, I made it to the school pretty early in the morning and organized everything: my things were pretty much back to the locker and some of my things were already set on the classroom. And I still had a couple of minutes before the classes started, so I took that time to lean into the chair with a cup of coffee, enjoying the lack of chaotic energy that come from being in a room filled with teenagers.

–Don’t be such a bad girl. –She rolled her eyes, leaning back happily. –And you got back in time, huh? We’re having a slaughter today.

Ah, the slaughters. It’s a term that the teachers came up to define the act of summoning a parent to collectively carve on their kids. Everybody gets a turn to give their piece, and that usually happens when the brat in question has been acting out too bad.

–Woof, who’s that?

–Huh, girl, take a guess. –Clara smirked behind her mug, raising a brow.

I mean, why would I even ask? Who else could it be?

–Damian Wayne. –I breathed out, rolling my eyes.

–There you go. –The teacher raised her mug in my direction, as if she was cheering on something. –No butler, this time around. The actual Bruce Wayne is coming.

–Damn... What did the kid even do?

–Damian didn’t really do anything, that’s what. He’s just walking around like a zombie and on his phone all the time, during the classes as well. He isn’t turning in any assignments and is being a dick to anyone calling who calls him out. –Then, she leaned closer to me and proceeded, in a lower tone. –There’s some gossip, too. Someone overheard him talking to a relative, and apparently there’s something up with his family. I mean; who knows?

 _Shit_.

–Really? –I furrow my brows, trying to feign ignorance.

Although, for all I know, I’m actually just that ignorant. What do I know? Nothing, right? Everything I know is just a bunch of complicated, messy information that I can’t even consider using. Things so senseless that they might as well sound like a lie.

–Yep. Whatever is up with those people. –She shrugs, setting the mug down on the table. –They said he’s going to come sometime after lunch and go around talking to the teachers to hear something. I don’t know if it’s worth the trouble, that boy is really untamable. What could possibly happen? Is Bruce going to cut the kid’s allowance by 50%?

–Oh, you don’t know enough about entitled rich men. –I mocked her, getting up from the chair and taking my things from the table to leave. –He’ll probably get a raise and a gift to improve his behavior.

The other teacher laughed audibly, but I didn’t stay back for long enough to hear it die. The whole topic was starting to make me sick.

Damian Wayne – or Robin, whatever that was supposed to mean.

I spent enough time pondering over it and convincing myself that it was for the better to bury the subject on the back of my head and just not think about it until the day I meet death. Knowing the identity of a vigilante is a lot more than enough, knowing about two is beyond exaggeration already.

Damian was the first thing my eyes landed on as soon as I passed through the door. The boy was sitting in the back of the classroom, as always; phone in hands and legs up on somebody else’s chair. And when he looked at me, cute smile and all, I did the basic assumption: he had absolutely no idea of what had happened – and that I knew about… Well, him.

I forced myself to take my eyes off him and go on, pushing the subject as far as I possibly could.

–So… We go back to history?

Ah, diverting: my greatest ability, besides playing dumb and being sarcastic.

The students had a few inconvenient questions about my dismissal during class, but they were easily contented with even more bland answers. Other than that, I picked upon my usual rhythm faster than what I had anticipated and simply avoiding to look at Damian was enough to keep me from thinking about Robin and Batman and Red Hood – and Jason and…

Well... The lessons, huh?

–You’re back.

–That’s the second time I hear this today. –I force a smile into my face, leaving my bag on the table and looking up to see Damian. –Hi there.

–Did they invite you for the slaughter? –Damian cringed, hiding his hands on his pockets.

–Oof… Who told you that? –I cringe as well, feeling a little bit of the oddity dissolve around me.

–Nobody did, but it’s not like you teachers are really discreet about it.

–Don’t blame us for anything, that’s on you. –I raise both hands in defense, leaning back in the chair. –And yes, sir, I was invited. What are you trying to do here? Contention plan; press office; public relations?

My suggestion made Damian laugh, which felt like a feat on itself – but before I could praise myself, an intrusive thought on the fact that the boy is a vigilante ruined the moment for me.

–I think it’s a bit too late for any of that.

–I do, too. You do a terrible job at promoting yourself, Damian. –I sigh, pulling at my papers on the desk. –Maybe you’ll learn a thing or two as you grow up; take some tips from your father. Or just ask him to give you media training and treat everybody else like paparazzi.

–That’s a terrible idea, thanks.

–You’re welcome, Wayne. So... Do you mind telling me what the hell have you been doing wrong while I was out?

–Uh, yeah… So… Family problems, I guess. –Damian shrugs, scratching the back of his head. –That should be all.

–Family problems, hm? –I prompt, squinting with as much of a judgmental expression as I can summon. –I personally do not believe that it excuses acting out, although it is a slightly better explanation. Do you want to talk about it?

–Not really. –The boy shakes his head, putting his hands back on his pockets. –It’s fine, it’s nothing new. I should be used to it.

–Are you sure? Is everything alright home?

–Yes! Yes, my house is all fine. It’s just my father and Alfred, really. It’s more like… Huh, it’s kind of coming from my mother’s side, but I guess that my father and my brothers aren’t really helping. –He shrugs again,

–Ok... See, I can’t give solutions to a problem I don’t know, Damian. But do you have any ideas of something that might help solve it? –I ask innocently, being struck by the abrupt reminder that Damian is also Robin. –You know, in a legal, morally correct way?

–I… It’s complicated. It’s, huh… These things kind of come and go all the time. I guess that I have some idea of how it’s all going to come down like, in the end. Really. –The boy nods nervously, eyebrows raised. –But it’s all family stuff. It usually goes down in a way, kind of predictable, but it’s stressing me out while it lasts.

–Whatever you say, Damian. –I sigh, eyeing the clock behind me (the next lesson should start soon). –You don’t want to talk and that’s ok. I’ll definitely talk to your father, though. I have no idea of what happened while I was out, but I think it would be something nice to do.

–Sure, that’s cool. Just don’t… Don’t slaughter me so bad? –Damian cringes again, fidgeting on his feet.

–Since you asked so nicely. –I try to give him an assuring smile, crossing my arms. –Now get out of here. You’re going to be late for your next class and my other students are coming.

The Wayne kid barely waved at me before practically running away. He probably was too far down the hallway to even hear my laughter, which I guess is for the better. And true to my words, it was barely a minute before the first students started coming in and I had to get up to organize everything for the next lesson. From the slave trade in South America to the revolutionary mass production of books in 15th century Europe, thanks to Gutenberg’s printing press, I had a lot to rearrange my mind for.

With Damian’s overwhelming presence gone, it was incomparably easier to go on with the lessons. Some of the kids seemed to be happy to see me, which was nice – and while there were lots of pertinent questions about the literary revolution, nobody else asked me anything about my sabbatical weeks. All things considered, that was good enough.

The time flew by, my mind permeated by facts from textbooks, other than the sharp, guilty and consuming thoughts that have been taking over me for the past few days. Too distracted to even let my mind wander back to that topic.

I walked back to the teacher’s room and had lunch with everybody else, although as quietly as I could – almost as if there was a chance they would find out what I had done, in case I opened my mouth to agree with any random, innocent statement from whatever teacher.

Clara sat by my side, laughing, unaware to what had happened.

Did I do something wrong? Is it wrong? I could tell myself – or anyone else, really, that I didn’t _know_ and that I wouldn’t have done it, in case I knew. Or I could also tell myself that it was his fault, but this just feels too wrong, too low. Feels unfair to him; odious, which is something I don’t really like being part of. Even though the rest of the world seems to be pretty unfair to me, I don’t like the uneasy feeling of contributing for it.

But I did, didn’t I? And most importantly: was it wrong?

I guess the easy answer is: of fucking course! It was the dumbest, craziest, most irresponsible choice that I have ever done in my entire life, and this is coming from the person who was negotiating with a thief behind the police’s back, tied inside a pontiac’s trunk not even two weeks ago – and it all feels like a motherfucking lifetime.

A time in which _he_ was just Red Hood: the blood chilling mighty vigilante who seemed to stalk me, for some reason. Then, J: the creepy, weirdly sexy thief who tried to frame me for robbery. And now it’s Jason, the confusing man who turns out to be all of these personalities at once and apparently, a little bit more as well. A person who is looked for and is listed as one of the state’s most wanted.

And jiu jitsu style, I pussylocked that man like he was the last dick in Gotham – and all of the guilt aside, as hard as I try to tell myself that it was wrong, I know that I wouldn’t have it in any other way.

–What’s going on in your head? –Clara poked me with her fork, making me jump on my seat. –Wow! What was that?

–You’re the worst! –I roll my eyes, leaning back on the chair to catch my breath. –The worst.

–Don’t be so dramatic. So? What’s on your head?

– _Men_. –I murmur, reasoning that it wouldn’t hurt to get some thoughtful advice from her (I don’t need to say names anyway, do I?).

–Oh. I thought… Well, I thought that… –Clara bites her lips, looking down to my hands. I followed her eyes and saw what she was doing: pointing to my finger, where my engagement ring is missing and a pale sun mark takes it’s place. –I noticed the ring a while ago. I thought that you two had split and you didn’t want to talk about it.

–Ah. Yeah, we did break up… Yeah. It’s just, hmm… –I look around, trying to see if there’s anyone focusing on us. Everyone is busy with their own food or a different conversation, but I lower my voice anyway. –I’m not really talking about _that_ man.

The way Clara’s face changed was hilarious. Eyes wide and mouth shaped like a perfect “O”, I had to cover my own to stop myself from laughing and drawing attention to the two of us.

–What do you mean? –She comes closer, talking as low as I had. –Wait. Did you break up with your fiancé because of…

–What? No! No, no, no! _He_ was cheating on me! –I waved frantically, nose wrinkled in disgust. –And then I kicked him out, but this is not about… Well… You know, this whole thing is really complicated. But long story short, I met this guy right after; he’s like, really intense. But he’s also terrible and we definitely can’t stay together.

–Damn, are you going out with a married man? –The arts teacher whispered, eyes widening again.

–What? Clara! No! He’s not married!

–Ok, that’s better, I guess. What’s with the guy, then? Is he a thug? –Clara shrugs and, well... I think that’s a righteous way of describing Jason, albeit mean (which he totally deserves). And maybe because it fits the description somehow, I run out of words to deny her guess. –No fucking way! I can’t believe you… Is he?

–No! He’s not a thief!

–I didn’t say thief, I said thug. Is he a thief?

–Clara! He’s not a thug and not a thief. He’s just… Really complicated and I can’t really talk about it, or it gets worse. –I shake my head, closing my eyes and trying to push away some intrusive thoughts that were crawling back to my mind.

–You know this is Gotham City, right? Everybody hooks up with thugs and gangsters. It’s like going to Disneyland without trying on one of those mickey ears headbands: the experience is not complete. –The teacher shrugs again, as if this is the most obvious thing ever.

–Yeah. Well, I never went to Disneyland and I never hooked up with a thug. –I roll my eyes, leaning back on my chair. –Can’t believe I’m a weirdo.

–Ok, fine. So he’s not a thug. What’s the problem?

–It’s just… It’s not… Morally correct.

–Morally correct? And you want me to believe that he’s not a bandit?

Her insistence finally made me laugh. After all, there was some sense to her logic and none of her words were wrong: yeah, sure, I did hook up with a couple of thugs in the past. This is Gotham City, not fucking Narnia; but I’m not going to admit that to my coworker.

–It’s complicated. He’s awful and he pisses me off the whole time. We’re always fighting and bickering, and I think about beating him up at last once every time we are together. –I sigh, crossing my arms in reflection to the goosebumps I got from thinking about these things. –And also, I don’t even understand the logistics behind being with him. It shouldn’t happen.

–Uh oh… Sorry to break it to you, but you sound like a goner. Did you have sex already? If he’s good, the only way you’ll get over this man is on your death bed. I have a full list of guys like this, I know the trouble.

–Great. Thanks for the terrible advice, then. –I place my hand on her shoulder, trying to smile. –Now let me get out of here before you ruin the rest of my sanity.

Clara laughed at my response, probably unaware to the fact that I was being actually serious. There were still some minutes before the classes started again, but I went back to the classroom anyway.

Today was a full day. No free periods, students coming and going nonstop. Somehow, it worked for me. When the kids came back, I could erase some of my thoughts and focus on coloniality and the Eurocentric point of view. After lunch, everyone was slower than usual, but it was functional enough and no one diverted from the subject, which was great.

Until, of course…

–Miss L/N? –Mr. Davidson’s weird head popped out on the door crack, visibly sweating. –We have someone who would like to talk to you for a minute.

Oh. Bruce Wayne was here and poor Damian’s slaughter was already going down. I had forgotten about that.

–Yes, of course. I’m coming. –I nodded at him and then turned back to the students, who were watching us curiously. –I’ll be back in a second. Behave, everyone.

Some of them smirked at me like it was obvious that they would definitely not do that, but I didn’t worry about it. Mr. Davidson would watch after them; his problem, not mine.

I walked out of the room and he came inside, switching places.

Outside, just as I imagined, Bruce Wayne stood in a clearly expensive tailored suit, looking as if he had made a quick pit stop from work to come here. Charming smile in place, looking as if this was another business meeting and I was an executive he had to convince of something.

–It’s nice to see you again.


	15. vipers and vipers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! Yes, I'm late and I'm very sorry. I'm drowning in very serious responsibilities right now and it leaves little to no time to focus here. It makes me very sad, because I love this story and I don't like the feeling that I'm letting anyone down. This right here is very important to me and I do take it seriously, even if it doesn't always meet anyones (including mine) expectations. Either way. Here's the new chapter.  
> Love everybody.  
> Hope you like this.

Against the grayish marble floor stands grey suit, black tie, expensive watch, shiny shoes, charming smile… Bruce Wayne. Not a lot different from the last time I saw him, just slightly less elegant, considering that the first time we met, we were at Diana Prince’s exhibit. Had I not gotten used to his son’s wicked personality antics, I would have been thrown back by the man’s imposing presence. A thing or two, however, have conditioned me to an annoying state of skeptical boredom.

–Miss Y/L/N. –Wayne tips his head, just like the last time, smiling like he knows something that I don’t. –So we meet again.

That mask: that heavy, yet so thin thing that is so clear to me; the made up person with multiple faces. The invisible threat and the nonstop power play.

–But for a bad purpose, I guess. –I smile back, trying to get hold of the situation. –So Damian’s at it again, I heard.

–Yes, of course, you’ve been away from the school for some time, right? –He feigns consideration, as if we both don’t know that he has moved a finger or two to make that happen. –To be fair, it’s not like a lot has happened on the mean time. Damian has always been a little untamable, and he get’s wilder if things start walking out of his usual routine.

–I see. Well. Damian has a problem with authority and another one with commitment, Mr. Wayne. –I point out, trying to keep my expressions neutral, yet impose myself just enough to keep him in place. –We do try to make him cooperate, but sometimes it’s just beyond our power. I’m not a parent, I have no idea of how it is to raise a child and I definitely don’t know what your relationship is like. I do believe, however, that most of his problems were originated at home, which means they need to be solved there before anything else.

–That’s true. Believe me, he’s not a lot better at home. –Wayne nods, with a more severe expression in place. –Damian has had psychological guidance for as long as he has been under my custody, but he’s though. And it’s hard to keep up with it, with work and everything else.

–Yes, I imagined something like that. Damian’s a sensitive boy. –I agree, crossing my arms. –Plays though, but he’s still a teenager: he’s confused, fragile and very sensitive.

–Sensitive is a word I never saw anyone use to describe my son. I’d say that it’s mostly otherwise.

–Hm. Parents usually know a lot less about their kids than what they actually imagined. You’d be surprised, Mr. Wayne. –I say, as my mind immediately goes back to the picture of a colorful boy waving at me from the rooftop of an abandoned building. Could Bruce Wayne picture that too? –Do you know your son that well?

He didn’t answer me immediately, which I naturally took as a victory. Brows furrowed, the man looked at me genuinely confused, although his posture remained the same. When he spoke, there was no attack or denial, but there was something unknown showing through his tone.

–Damian has always been closed off, more so than his older siblings. But regardless of that, I believe I know him well enough, Miss Y/L/N.

Does he, really? How can Wayne say something like this: how can this man say that he know his son well, if he doesn’t even know that Damian leads a parallel, highly dangerous life on the streets of Gotham? What would he say if he found out that the Interpol A+ lister Red Hood is picking him up after school and that they go out on patrol together?

How co –wait. If the tale I’ve been told isn’t exactly a lie, Jason is supposed to be Damian’s brother, right? Give or take, meaning that they probably share the same father: Bruce Wayne, who I know to have quite the number of adoptive kids. And how come a man manages to strike two vigilante sons all under the same roof and keep completely oblivious to that?

He’s not, that’s the answer. There’s no way he doesn’t know about all of that – which comes with another question: why? Why would he let that happen? Because sure, my parents weren’t the best themselves, but if they wouldn’t have allowed me to carry on with my lunacy: they would have stopped me somehow.

There’s no way in hell anyone sane enough would let something like this carry on – not unless they were involved themselves.

A conclusion that immediately makes me think about how Wayne’s jaw is incredibly familiar. Huh.

–Well, that’s to say something. –I nod, trying to control my impulses; which I don’t. I step closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder and speaking on a tone I hope no one (in the already empty hallway) could hear. –You probably know him better than what I do, Mr. Bat, but I guarantee that Damian is better off practicing his artistic skills than jumping around this god forsaken city in that neon costume.

For the sake of drama, I gave him a couple of seconds of reflection before I backed off. Some sadistic part of me longed for a shocked reaction, but what I saw on Bruce Wayne’s face was a sympathetic, knowing expression that I have seen before, but on somebody else’s face: Jason’s.

The man didn’t seem to be shocked, although something on eyes, amused, could have been read as pleasantly surprised – which is a term I never imagined to use in a situation like this. I don’t know: maybe he’s used to it. Maybe I’m not the first person to figure it out.

–Artistic skills? –Wayne tilted his head to the side, clearly escaping from the subject that I brought up.

So he wants to play it like this, huh?

–So you really don’t know anything, do you? The kid wants to paint. –I point out, crossing my arms again. –And he’s good at it; better than whatever is happening out there. _Better off._

–I know. But I also know that nothing is ever so simple. –The man sighs, the amused light diminishing on his blue eyes.

–No, it’s not. But that’s your problem. –I say matter-of-factly, trying to hold back a shrug and keep the eye contact. –Figure it out, Mr. Wayne. We just want to see him well.

–I understand that. –He nods at me, pensive. For a very brief moment, it almost looked as if he was about to say something else, but then, the thought seemed to get reconsidered and lost in time. –Thank you, Miss Y/L/N.

Pensive. Fucking pensive: serious, but not severe. Not exactly grave. Bruce Wayne just looked like a man who had realized something, but something made me believe it had nothing to do with my harsh critics on his half-assed parenting skills. Something on his eyes, which weren’t really focusing on anything, seemed to be lost in thought and all things considered, I’d rather not know what kind of thoughts they were.

–It was nice to get to talk to you, Mr. Wayne. Good afternoon.

I didn’t wait for an answer before turning away, neither kept holding his gaze. I didn’t knock before opening the door, and judging by Mr. Davidson’s worried expression, he was happy to finally get to the leave the classroom – which he did in the blink of an eye, as soon as I crossed the doorstep.

Doors closed, quiet classroom, dozens of pairs of curious eyes turned to me, waiting for some sort of explanation which most of them knew wouldn’t really come.

–So, where did we stop again? It was the mass production of the bible’s translation, wasn’t it? –I spoke to myself, looking back to the board and the books on my table, trying to regain my line of thinking. –Ok, let’s see about that.

Thankfully, nobody interrupted me. Either because they were all focusing into the subject or because they were just too bored to say anything and act out, I didn’t care. Of all days, this wasn’t one for worrying myself with the principles of pedagogy. In new light, I just wanted to end my working hours and march back home as quickly as possible, dreaming of a hot stream of water easing the knots on my shoulders and a nice dinner (as nice as I could make it, of course).

The schools activities ceased at 5pm. When I left, so did most of the kids – and I couldn’t help but notice that Damian was nowhere to be seen, meaning that maybe his father took him home earlier.

I took that moment in which the streets were still somewhat light and filled with kids and speed walked all the way home – masked by some sort of bravery and my trademark mean face, so nobody else would try to approach me in the middle of the street. After I finally came inside my apartment and locked the door behind my back, I allowed myself to breathe in.

It was hard to be outside after… Well, after all of that. On the past few weeks, months, if you say so, my life has been hectic and most of my experiences with being outside have resulted in a big mess. So I guess it was reasonable to feel anxious about it, I just didn’t expect it to be aggravated like that.

So my shoes were put back in their place. My bag was placed on my table and I took my clothes off, slowly, trying to conceal the anxiety that tried to convince me to just lie down on the bed and never leave – but you need to clean yourself after spending any time on the filthy streets of Gotham, though, and that knowledge speaks to me more clearly than anything else.

I showered first, head to toe, despite my hands feeling way too numb to wash my hair properly. Washing out the feeling, I stayed there for a lot longer than what I actually needed, probably not doing the planet any favors. After I finally shook myself of it, though, I wrapped myself on my thick white towel and walked out of the bedroom without even glancing to the mirror.

And, well. I don’t know why it still surprised me.

The first thing I saw after getting walking out was Jason, casually leaning on my bedroom’s door jamb.

The feat on itself didn’t make me scream, but naturally, the initial shock made me jump back. The motion let the towel get a little loose around my body, which I fixed as soon as the scare wore off.

–I have a doorbell! –For some reason, that’s the first thing to leave my mouth.

–And security cameras all over the lobby. –Jason counterstrikes, seemingly unaffected by my accusations.

It was a strange, but nice change: he didn’t stand as Red Hood, wearing all of that vigilante garb, helmet and all. Apparently it was just Jason, albeit the dark clothes he wore weren’t exactly the type anyone used to go on about their ordinary day.

And meanwhile, I’m, well… Standing in a towel. The realization made me cross my arms in front of my chest, hoping that it would hide my body a little better. Jason’s response to that was to roll his eyes, along with an annoyed gruff.

–Do you want me to turn around?

–What? No! I want you to explain to me why the hell you’re here! –I say perhaps a bit too loud, uncrossing my arms purely out of spite and putting my hands on my hips.

–I mean, about ten seconds ago you said that I was welcome through the front door. –Jason shrugged, still playing with that smug look on his face. –Get your stories straight, woman.

–Yes! Jason, walking in through the front door is different than breaking in somehow in the middle of the night, because that’s not creepy at all.

–Hm… So no more breaking in? –He cocks one of his eyebrows, smirking at me.

I guess the only possible answer to a question like that is an immediate “yes!”, but for some reason, I found myself completely silent. In contemplation, while this sucks and will probably give me a heart attack someday, it’s also a… I don’t know about pleasant, but it’s definitely a surprise. But I should tell him to stop – I should say “yes!”

But again, my brain didn’t process the words fast enough, which got me a sneering laugh out of him.

–So you like the thrill, huh?

–Jason! –I cut him, feeling some heat rise to my face and crossing my arms again. –Why?

Probably getting convinced by my annoyance, Jason stopped laughing. He was still amused, though, and there was something in the way he looked at me that called back to that night we had some days ago.

Hungry.

–Mr. Bat, huh?

Fuck. Did he talk to Bruce Wayne on the meantime? Which, well… So I was, in fact, right? The decade long mystery that not a single person seemed to be able solve: Bruce Wayne, local billionaire with that tragic backstory really is the Batman. And not just that: his sons are Robin and Red Hood – and Bruce Wayne’s older soon is a wanted men. Fuck, and what else?

– _Oh._

–Yeah, you got him there. Old man’s out there looking like he’s going grey earlier than expected.

–I didn’t… I didn’t really think about it. –I shake my head, remembering those intense minutes from earlier and regretting every single second of it. –I don’t know why I did that. Was it wrong?

–To figure it out? I mean, you probably shouldn’t. –Jason shrugs, dismissive, with a calm expression on his face. –But you’re knee deep in this bullshit already. It’s the least we owe you.

–To know your faces? –I ask, wrinkling my nose and squinting my eyes.

–To know where to look for. –Jason corrects me matter-of-factly, a sentence that makes me go quiet for a while.

I get the idea and I like the fact that it has been proposed, but how in the world was that logic even supposed to work? Do I show up at Wayne Enterprises at 9am and ask one of the receptionists to send me to her boss’s office? My only explanation being, of course, the fact that he’s Batman and the only person who can help me fix my problem with being chased by some sort of middle eastern mob and what not. And as to Jason…

–I don’t even have your phone number and the only address I know is fake. –I point out the most obvious fact, which was pretty much the device that had me riding him hard for hours just one of these days (which I didn’t mind at all).

–Yeah, there’s that. About the address thing, it’s going to stay that way. –Jason nods and then points to my phone, lying on my bed in position that I didn’t really remember leaving it like. –But I added my contact to your phone.

–You what?! Were you messing with my phone?

–Are you really surprised? –He shrugged, gesturing to himself as if it was obvious that he would do something like that.

And to be fair, it kind of was.

–No, I’m fucking not. –I grumble, changing the feet I supported my weight on; the lack of action was starting to make me anxious. –What are you going to do now?

–Nothing. There has been some activity from the league of assassins in the city, though, so we have some funny people walking around town who don’t like me a lot. Wonder Woman, Supes, the Green Arrow... Meaning that for the time being, Red Hood is gonna be missing unless he’s really needed out there. And on another note, I can’t leave you alone here until we’re sure that they’re gone.

–Wait. What do you mean? –My arms fall down to my sides, feeling way too heavy for some reason. My second reaction was to check the window, which was closed. Once I checked that, I walked closer to him. –You said “league of assassins”.

–The people who took you. Remember? –He asked, coming closer to me as well. –There’s a lot more from where they came from.

–And they’re coming after me again?

–They’re not supposed to, not after we made it clear that it’s on us. But it wouldn’t be the first time someone fucks with an innocent civilian out of spite. –Jason shrugged, putting his hands on his pockets. –Specially after the MacGyver we pulled to take you back.

–Fuck. –I close my eyes, as a familiar buzz of anxiety starts doing laps on my system. –I thought that I could finally go back to my normal life.

–No one can. That’s why we do it like this.

Jason didn’t need to specify what “this” was supposed to mean. For me, it was loud and clear: the secrecy. The mystery, the hiding, the uneasiness, the usually cold and rough behavior.

From the very first moment the two of us met on my building’s rooftop, a whole lifetime ago, my life has been all sorts of fucked up. To the point of concluding, every once in a while, that absolutely nothing but death fixes or erases some of the things I’ve seen and got involved with. Like, for example, having my identity known by a network of, as Jason says, countless outlaws that apparently name themselves “league of assassins”.

–What do I do now? –I force my eyes open, pushing over the anxiety and trying to act as objective as possible.

–Nothing. You stay here all cute and then you’ll go to work tomorrow like nothing ever happened. If you start acting weird and out of routine, they’ll know that you’re involved with something.

–But I’m not!

–That doesn’t matter to them and frankly, to us either. Just do as I say and I’ll take care of the rest. –His deliver was rough enough to keep me quiet, although to be fair, it’s not like the topic was inciting a lot of reactions from me. Probably sensing that, Jason’s expression softened, as did his voice when he started talking again. –We got folks out there working right now to shut down this operation, if it makes you feel better.

It did make me feel better, but I wasn’t going to tell him that.

Probably by lack of action, I glanced back to my bed and in seconds, my legs were taking me there before I could even think about it too much. I sat on the edge and then laid my back there – and as soon as I did, my muscles melted in response, in a clear warning that they wouldn’t accept anything other than that.

–We did have sex. –I blurt out before I can stop myself, barely feeling the words rolling on my tongue.

–Hm… Yeah, that happened. –I hear him say in a tone that matched mine. –And you wanna talk about that _now?_

–What? You wanted me to give you a warning call to set a formal reunion to discuss it? –I sass him, staring at the light above me. –I didn’t have your number, anyway.

I didn’t expect to, but my dumb joke made him laugh: that sweet, spontaneous laugh that makes him look younger – the one I like.

–Fair enough. –He says, followed by the sound of light footsteps coming in my direction. –What do you want to say?

–What do I want to… –I almost pick up on a discussion about the (seemingly) obvious reason, but my one brain cell acts out before I go on with embarrassing myself. Jason’s sexual life throughout the years must have been completely different than mine in many ways: I’ve been in a relationship for years, meanwhile people hardly ever get a grip of his name. –Huh. I don’t know a lot about you, but I bet that the two of us are very… Fuck, I don’t know. I’m not used to this: it’s weird. I’ve been with the same guy since I was 19.

–Oof, that mother… I had forgotten about that. –Jason said in a annoyed tone, coming into my camp of view. In contrast to the light above us, his face was a lot darker than usual, but I could see his expression contorted in disgust. –So, tell me. How are you enjoying your time as a single woman?

–Oh, it’s been exciting. –I roll my eyes back, unable to contain the sarcasm coming through on my voice. –I had sex with a vigilante on the meantime. How about that?

–Sounds like you have a very low sense of self preservation. –Jason stated, tilting his head to the side. –Was it worth it?

I mean… Was it? I know I shouldn’t have, but all things considered, it came after the whole world had fallen down my shoulders, so for all I know, it did nothing to weight on me. So in the end, I’d say that it’s a simple answer.

–Yes. You?

–Yes. –Jason mimics the word, simple answer.

–Ok. –I whisper back, half processing what he said and half silently freaking out, even though I didn’t know in what way yet.

–Are you feeling anything? –Jason asks with furrowed brows.

I know that he’s probably talking about the weird expression that I definitely have printed on my face, but I go on with it.

–Confused, I guess. Most of the time, I just want to strangle you, but sometimes you make feel really… –I manage to stop myself before I say anything weird, the passive look on his face telling me that so far, it was ok. But I proceeded differently. –I’m starting to think that one thing leads to another.

–I know. –He nods at me slowly, expression soft.

–So we’re both confused? –I ask him, weirdly satisfied with it. The small smile on his lips gave me a strange feeling of victory, but I didn’t let the sweet moment linger for too long. –Ah, so you want to strangle me too?

–Hm... –He pretended to reflect, placing the tip of his fingers on my knees. –But I already did that, didn’t I?

The low voice, which almost sounded like a growl, was enough to make me shiver, goose bumps all over rising all over my skin. I did, in fact, remember that: I did remember his hand wrapped around my throat – the rough, calloused palm against my skin, pressing with just enough force to hold me in place and...

–I remember. –I whisper, feeling him slide his fingers higher up along my thigh.

I close my eyes for a couple of seconds, waiting for Jason to keep going with whatever that was. He stops along the way, though, fingers just inches away from where the towel covered my skin. I opened my eyes again.

–Hey. You know that’s not possible, don’t you? –Jason whispers, looking right into my eyes with a severe expression, fingers still frozen in place. –I’m not a real person.

Ah, yes, the understatement of the century. The stupid problematic that I’ve been pondering over since the first couple of times I realized that some of my anger towards him was just sexual tension, other than nemesis-like hate.

Like a great deal of times, I don’t put too much thinking on my words before speaking again.

–There’s a lot of impossible things going on in my life right now. –I sigh, closing my eyes again and shying away from his stare. –You’d be surprised by how little I care about at this point.

Jason is quiet again.

His fingers go back to moving.


	16. sexual

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY! For once I'm here in time and YES I'm going to pat myself in the back.  
> This chapter has sex from the beggining to the end, so uh, there's that. Also. Fair warning: I don't think that there's a lot of chapters left here. I'm considering to finish this soon and then just writing a couple of oneshots here and there, that could be both related to this fanfiction as a series and also as independent stories. So, huh... Yeah.  
> I hope this is not too much thirst.  
> Have fun!

Jason’s lips were just like I remembered: surprisingly soft and unbearably hot, clashing on my freshly showered, cool skin. The divergence of heat inducing shock waves on me and probably on him as well.

He kissed my entire body, the towel lost somewhere under us. This time around, it was a lot easier to undress him: I managed to slide off his jacket while he kissed my stomach, then, pulled his shirt while he kissed my breasts. And when I had him leaning over me, kissing my neck, I reached down to unbuckle his belt, with my hand still lost on his hair.

They say that there’s something with necks and lust. You know, since your neck veins, called jugulars, carry venous blood from the skull and nervous system. They’re vital and, as it has been said, they stay right there, exposed on our necks, under such sensitive skin. There’s something primitive in our subconscious that understands that fact and wants us to keep it away from everyone else – on the exception, of course, from when you’re attracted by someone.

Then, our animal brain just kind of collapses and makes you want to expose your jugulars, showing that you’re not scared of them.

It used to be a full patience exercise to keep myself still when anyone came close to my neck: a perfectly squirmish, annoying experience that I always wanted to get done with as soon as it started. I _googled_ the reason why once and figured that I was either too shy or just not attracted enough.

And then… I kind of got it. For the second time in the time spam of a week, I had been throwing my head back without even thinking twice, while Jason explored my neck like it tasted sweet. Thinking something along the lines of “ _just come and take it all_ ”, stupid words that I’d never actually voice.

And as opposed to the last time, two of us weren’t as rushed. So I took my sweet, sweet time to drag my fingertips along his body, slowly, feeling him out. From the hard muscles on his shoulders to the softest skin on his waist. Jason supported some of his weight with one of his hands, the other one in between our bodies, touching me in a similar way that I did to him. So I touched his arm too, caressing every inch of skin and scar as he started to bring his own hand lower on me.

He knew where to touch me. One time seemed like too little to have learned so much but he knew where and exactly how – I didn’t feel like directing him around, not at all. Middle finger caressing my clit with just enough pressure: wet and hot and good. His pace wasn’t rushed and yet, I found myself bordering an orgasm shamefully fast.

–Feel good? –Jason said right to my ear, voice heavy with lust.

My answer was unintelligible, as it was consumed by a needy moan – which probably was as explanatory as it could get.

Albeit slower and a lot gentler than the last time, Jason still had that imposing presence of dominance over me. Despite that convincing illusion that I was in control of anything, my movements were still dictated by his: I could only take my body as far as he allowed me to go.

It evoked some conflict inside my brain. The control freak in me wanted to fight: to flip us over again, grab his neck, make him moan and grunt like that last time and take what I wanted on my own pace. Another part of me enjoyed the thrill of the battle: wanted to get off in the pushing and pulling in between us, never giving in, but never giving up. And then, probably in response to his own natural dominance, there was some unknown part of me that was craving to have all control taken away.

And letting my body speak louder than my conscience, I started to lean harder into the later.

– _Yes_ … –I breathed out, hips bucking up to feel his fingers harder on me. – _Y-yes!_

I think I’ve heard somewhere that for women, it’s substantially harder to reach an orgasm if we’re worried about something: that we need to be in the right place of mind or something of the like – a theory that, so far, has proven itself to be bullshit. With the single exception of when I’m teaching, which is to say something, I can’t think of a single moment of my actual life in which I’m not losing my mind over something. And yet, here I am: body nearly shutting down, shaking with electric spasms.

–Good girl. –Jason ironically praised, smirking at me with a devilish glint on his eyes.

It doesn’t take a lot from Jason to piss me off. The remark easily set on fire that nonsense part of me that considered being submissive and letting take control of this.

–Fuck you, Jason. –I manage to say, taking my hand to his shoulder to push him off me.

This time around, however, he was a lot faster than me. In a swift move, Jason captured both my hands and brought them above my head, pinning me down in place. A little tugging showed me that I could not, in fact, out-force that grip (which isn’t at all surprising).

–Come on, don’t get predictable on me. –He joked, taking his hand off my center and resting it on my thigh. –And you were being such a _good girl_.

–You’re just trying to piss me off. –I murmur, trying to block the feeling of his wet fingers caressing my skin on teasing, lazy strokes.

–Yeah, you’re just easy to spite.

The soft smile on his face when he leaned in to kiss me again made something stupid inside of me flutter. But like a great deal of things, I would never really say that out loud – and Jason’s lips on mine were a fantastic distraction to let go of that thought. So I eased myself, my wrists relaxing completely under his hold. I could do _no-control_ for once, and it wasn’t bad: it wasn’t bad at all. Maybe a little new, but it felt good; which sums up most of my experiences with Jason.

It didn’t take us any kind of effort to find a rhythm. It came naturally, our bodies meeting in consonance, feeling each other out. Pleasure made itself at home on my organism and I saw Jason, breathing in at the same rate I was.

He made me moan and then he moaned, and it made me want to moan in response. Dirty words lost in between every couple of minutes, coming from the two of us. I had some snarky remarks on the tip of my tongue, but he kept knocking them out of me, my mind going blank every once in a while.

I took in all of those sounds coming together in accord, building up in heat – with the hands, and sweat, and hands, and muscles, and hair, and lips and hands. It made me remember what my mom used to say when I was an anxious kid, fidgeting on the backseat of her old car.

_“The halfway is also a place”._

There’s sex and there’s _sex_. That was sex and this is _sex_. A lot less ferocious, but much more intense.

My legs almost had a life of their own, torn in between spreading themselves wider for him or just wrapping around his body. My feet kept sliding on the sheets, getting hyper sensitive, toes curling. Every thrust made me feel hotter, made my center get more and more sensory; every touch made want to whine and moan. His skin was unbearably heated and yet, the feeling of him against me was extremely addictive – I didn’t want to come down from that moment.

And while I never checked a watch, I could tell that we made it last for a very long time: I could feel it on my body. Getting to hold myself onto him when I came for the second time made it better.

In the absolute fire, the motherfucker managed to make me shiver.

Jason came inside me not much longer after that, but he kept going at it for a while. I didn’t get to come down from that high for a sometime and neither did he, bodies screaming in pleasure, exhaustion and relief.

We might have lied down there for over an hour; it wouldn’t be a surprise. Bodies intertwined, the breathing slowly falling back to it’s natural rhythm. We watched each other for a while, silently, hands still moving in lazy caress.

–Jason, I… What… Jason, what the fuck are we doing?

I didn’t mean to say it like that (or to say anything, at all). But out of the comfortable trance we were both dipped on, something on my mind snapped again, as I dreadfully realized that the peace we laid on was delusive. Unreal.

–I thought we had just settled that neither of us know. –He mumbles, thankfully unfazed by my question. –Why is that now? Worried about something?

 _Yes_ , but I’m not going to say that. My time teaching teenagers told me a great deal about dealing with unpredictable, borderline unstable people. And while I absolutely trust Jason, I don’t want to ruin _this_ , whatever it is.

–I don’t know. What kind of charges could be pressed against me for being an accomplice? –I dig my fingers into his ribcage, hoping that the irony came through on my tone.

–Oh, that. Hm, let’s see… –Jason took a deep breath, closing his eyes in clear, fake consideration. –If you’re smart enough and a really good actress, you can just tell everybody that you were compelled. And that might as well get you a nice remuneration from the Wayne Victim Refuge.

–The Wayne Victim Refuge, huh? Sounds like a deal. –I roll my eyes, shaking my head on top of his shoulder. –But you know I wouldn’t do that shit.

–Nah, fuck off with the self-unforgiving vigilante bullshit. –He groans, shaking his head slowly. –Watch out for yourself. You’re smarter than this.

–A couple of years in prison? Maybe five? Or lots of years, like decades? –I press on, ignoring his complaint.

Jason’s head sunk further into the pillow, as a seemingly exhausted sigh escaped his lips. He was quiet for a while and I watched his grave features in silence, knowing that he would definitely end up giving me an answer.

–Ever heard of Harley Quinn?

 _Oh_. Of course, but I guess everyone in this city did. The news talked nonstop about the Joker’s doctor, who became his girlfriend of sorts in Arkham Asylum and ended up going crazy too. She helped him break out of the prison and then got into crime herself – but that’s all I know. I’ve never been the type to look into these things for too long.

–Hm-hm. –I nod, stretching my neck a little bit to see the look on his eyes. –And?

–There is a life imprisonment sentence out for her, but the police force is instructed to shoot if she comes in sight.

–Then how is she going to be arrested, if they shoot her first?

The bitter laugh that crawled out of his throat was a simple answer: nobody really wants her to get arrested. Harley Quinn is a troubled, dangerous person, way past being humanized. They just want her dead.

–I guess that you got the spirit of it. –Jason whispered, looking down to meet my eyes. –Sounds good to you?

–I think… I mean, naïve me, but I think that these are two very different pictures. –I whisper back, flattening my palm on his chest. –I’m just a history teacher. That’s all I want to be and that’s all I’m ever going to be.

–I trust that. –Jason nods, bringing one of his hands higher to touch my hair. –But it doesn’t really matter. Considering all the things that he did; and the things that I’ve done, the state recognizes that to condone to this type of behavior, you have to be mentally unstable yourself. And then… It’s Arkham Asylum for you.

Silence.

–They learned their lesson with her. –I murmur, as some lights shone brighter before my mind.

–Exactly.

Silence.

–Then I better not be caught with Red Hood. –My voice sounded lower than what I had projected it like on my head, but judging by the troubled expression on his face, he did listen. –Or is Jason Wayne a wanted man too?

With furrowed brows, Jason watched me for a couple of minutes. The silence was starting to ring on my ears as an unexplainably deafening sound, his stare almost making my doubt my words.

– _Todd_.

–Todd? –Then _I_ furrowed my brows in confusion, while his expression became soft.

–Jason Todd.

Oh. Jason Todd, the _citizen_ – but I didn’t allow myself to think about it for too long. We both fell in comfortable, peaceful silence once again and when my eyelids started to feel heavy, I didn’t fight them for once.

An annoying sound woke me up in the morning: the 6:30am alarm on my phone. It was a goddamned Thursday, after all, and I had to go to work soon enough. Most classes started at 8am and I needed at least one hour to get ready and walk there.

I had been sleeping naked with no covers, which was something rare on itself, but what really surprised me was the heavy arm around my waist. Still sleepy, I looked behind my shoulder to check it out, and Jason’s eyes immediately met mine. He had been sleeping on his chest, one arm under the pillow and the other one over me. Judging by his weary expression, my alarm woke him up as well.

–Are you going to turn that off? –He asked, voice thick with sleep.

–Wait a second. –I mumble, reaching for my phone on the nightstand and shutting down the alarm. –I have to go to work in one hour and a half.

–Yeah? Ok, come back here. –Jason said, reaching out for my waist and pulling me back to him.

–Jason, I’m serious. I need to get ready. –I sigh, not really wanting to go away, despite my words.

–Fuck, you need one hour and a half to get ready?

–I… It’s not like that. I need to shower and wash my hair, pick something to wear, fix my face, make something for breakfast, get my things… This might come off as a surprise, but teachers need to revise lessons before actually teaching them. And I can’t be late. –I complain, trying to push him off again.

He holds me harder.

–I bet you can shower in like 5 minutes. You don’t need make up and… Don’t you always wear, like, pants and shirts? What do you really need to pick? Come on, go back to sleep.

–No! I’m washing my hair; that’s fifteen minutes. And I can’t arrive there at 8 o’clock, I’m not an animal.

–I can’t believe you wake up like this already. –He grumbles, pushing me on my back and holding my hands on each side of my head. –It’s 6am, slow down a little.

And with that being said, Jason started to lower himself on me. For once, I realized my nudity, making some stupid blush rush to my cheeks. Heart fucking racing.

–What are you doing? –Getting breathless already, I brought my hand to his neck, trying to keep him from moving any further. –Jason!

–What? I’m trying to see if I can make you act a little nicer. –He muttered under his breath, moving despite my grasp.

Jason is, non-surprisingly, a fucking tease. He might as well have kissed every inch of my skin, slowly. Hauntingly provocative, definitely knowing that at some point, it would just make me lose my patience instead. I was actually seconds away from either kicking him away to go shower or directing his face into me.

He was faster, though. If I hadn’t been fully awake then, Jason’s tongue on me definitely did the trick to wake me up. I was still sensitive from last night, which hadn’t been to many hours ago, and my body picked on stimulation in seconds. My lower body was having it’s reactions already, and his hands came for my thighs before they snapped by reflex.

He spread them wide, making it harder for me to kick him. I wasn’t really used to that much exposure, but to be honest, it had grown on me way too quick – probably something to do with the fact that because of him, my brain started to associate being spread like this to an upcoming orgasm.

That vigilante son a bitch fucking pavloved me.

–I can’t believe you. –I shake my head, hips bucking up already. –Jason, fuck! I’m g… I can’t believe you!

Jason pressed me down harder, not slowing down at all. He knew I was close and went for the kill, which didn’t take longer than a minute. Judging by the way it sounded on my own ears, my cry might as well have awaken some of my neighbors, in case they were still asleep.

This is getting ridiculous. He’s probably going to end up spoiling me, making me climax with so much ease – and the best part, feeling as if he enjoys making me come as much as I do.

–What about now? Feel like going a bit slower? –He proposed, looking up to me with a smug expression.

–I… Jason… I still need to go shower. –I say in between my rapid breaths, fingers shaking.

–Ok, then. –Whispering, he dipped his head down again and went back to licking my clit.

My legs jerked in response to the immediate contact, but he still had his grip on me.

–Jason! I need to- fuck! –My entire body stirred, taking the complaint away from my mouth. –I can’t be late, Jason… Don’t… I need to start showering right n… Oh my- Jason! Just come shower with me!

That was enough to get his attention, but the abrupt stop made me whine. He didn’t say anything about, but the smirk on his face made it clear that my reaction hadn’t been unnoticed.

–I thought you were going to be late? –He teased, leaning in to kiss my center.

–You stop that. –I try to tighten my grip on his hair, way too numb to really take him off me or to move my legs. Definitely not my legs. –We can go to the shower together, but it has to be quick.

My phone started to go off again, with one of the many alarms I usually set to make sure that I’m not falling back asleep.

If Jason was going to refuse my negotiation, the alarm shook him off it. He came back up and turned it off himself, then buried the phone somewhere under the pillows.

–Ok, let’s see about that.


	17. Wait a second...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! It's been 13 years since I last came here! And I'm so sorry for this. I feel like I failed a bunch of people and that's terrible - for all of us, I guess.  
> If anyone is looking for some plausible explanations: I've had a terrible time managing college stuff in the end of the year, even though I had awesome grades (kind of the result for all the hard work, I guess). Then there's the addition of a long time eating disorder plus some side effects that are catching up with me. And than I peppered in some depression just to make things fun. And mixing these two..... I started to have some low blood pressure issues, which sucks because: passing out, cold sweat, vision fading out, feeling week overall. I got some blood tests but other than anemia, I'm not all fucked up - the doctor said these things are all emotional.  
> Get happy or die, I guess.  
> So I thought that a good way to start was here, coming back to the fic and you guys. I know the chapter is short, but it's what I could manage. I'll try to keep up.  
> Hope no one is too mad. Hope everyone is ok. Hope this is ok.  
> Ps. the format is weird because I'm writing from my phone. I'll fix it when I get the notebook in a few weeks!

Facing damian after learning that he was the sidekick to a well known vigilante was undoubtedly easier than doing so after screwing his brother.

And yes, as I expected and warned him about, I obviously did not get to school in time. You see, when Jason first offered me a ride, I simply waved him off and said that I would definitely not climb on a motorcycle with him on my way to work. I mean - right in front of my easily impressed, loose-mouthed students and coworkers? Nope. The issue was closed: so we dressed up, made breakfast together and sat down to eat.

In a intrusive flash of sanity, I finally had the curiosity to check the clock, just to learn that the classes were supposed to start in approximately 5 minutes. I was too late for my own good - and then, contrary to my very severe affirmations, barely a minute later I was on top of that goddamned motorcycle, bag tucked under my arm and yellow binder safely nested in between our bodies.

Jason, that motherfucker - I could tell that he was smug about it, but at least had the decency to keep quiet.

He drove fast, like I’ve witnessed before. Fast enough to be scary, but not enough to be against the law (not during the morning, at least). The engine roared under my body, the steady vibration somewhat comforting - although the riding made it impossible for me to block the hard pressure on my vagina, which was still ridiculously sensitive after everything we did this morning.

The school bells rang loudly in the very second my feet touched the ground. I rushed inside without looking back, moving away from Jason’s laughter as I suppressed my own. Being late, having no control, no proper planning: a bunch of things that I have always hated, but that were easily forgotten as I pushed my way in, wearing a stupid smile on my stupid face.

When I waltzed inside the classroom, all the kids were already inside, waiting for me. Some were sitting patiently on their desks, while some were standing near their friends, chatting, either bored out of their minds or happy - what they all had in common, though, was a phone in their hands.

-Good morning. -I called out from the entry, knocking on the already open door before walking inside. -How is everyone?

An annoyed chorus of "good morning" flooded the room, accompanied by only a couple of "i'm fine", by two or three of the most energetic students. I'm a self-conscious person: I do recognize that no one wants to hear shit about history at 8am, I get that - so I don't push anyone and move on to the projector connected to the ceiling.

Whenever my classes are first thing in the morning, I try to stick to light subjects and simple lessons, for both the kids and my own well being.

My pen drive, recently fished out of the bag that I'm yet to leave on the table, goes into the projector and I start battling with the old thing to open the right file. The thing is too slow, and as I wait for it to find it's own rhythm, I start looking around to check on the kids - and inevitably, my eyes fell right upon Damian Wayne, sitting in the back of the room.

Maybe what takes me off guard is the fact that he is already looking at me, even though he has a light expression in place. And no matter how hard I try to keep it on the back of my mind, inevitably, my first thought as I saw his sweet, boyish face was that barely thirty minutes ago, his brother had me on the top of my bathroom sink, legs spread wide open for him - calling out his name and moaning like a bitch. 

Hopefully, Damian couldn't see how red my face had gotten.

Breaking my shameful moment, someone close to the board alerts me of the images finally working, so I shake myself to go back to messing with the buttons and getting to the file for today's lesson. Once I'm done, I look at the shining projector and then to the slideshow layered into the wall - I asses today's lesson, which I'll have to bullshit my way through.

That motherfucker Jason will have to pay for this.

I almost sigh in defeat, turning back to the kids and deciding what to start with. I'm startled, though, by the sudden sound of engine - which has become familiar enough to me, in the past few weeks - coming through the window. None of the students really mind it, as they're either fidgeting with their books or looking at me expectantly.

But one of them does.

Unlike his classmates, Damian looks through the window with narrowed eyes, for as long as the engine can still be heard. When it's finally gone, the teenager turns his face back to me, but the look on his eyes is different than before, and it's also nothing like what the rest of the kids have; clueless and bored.

Damian looks at me like I'm a 1K piece puzzle he just solved, but he hates the final image.

And it's not like either of us can say anything about it: not with them, not here. So with an almost painful sigh, I go back to the rest of the students, pretending I can't see him leaning back into his sit while putting on headphones - in a clear message: "fuck you".

Oh, yeah, that motherfucker Jason is going to pay - but I have to pay, too.

I fight with myself for the longest time to ignore it, but at some point I get too anxious to keep it all in. If given the chance, my hands could possibly start to shake - though I don't really have a reason to. I'm a grown woman and so is Jason, we're free to do whatever (within the law), but something about the way Damian looked at me made me feel as if I had been busted for committing something shameful.

It's set so heavy inside my chest to the point where I can see myself getting emotional - which is ridiculous - so before going for lunch, I take my phone out of my bag and go for the contacts, looking for where he had saved his own number. There was something new: a "J", which I knew I hadn't done myself. So I went with it and texted him.

 _"Jason. I think he knows."_ I sent, looking expectantly to the screen. The answer comes immediately, making me think that maybe it was an emergency number. And while his words came quick, they don't do much to make me feel better.

_"You mean the brat? Took him long enough"_

_"What do you mean? And don't call him that"_

_"He's a good detective. Comes after his daddy, I guess. Thought he knew already"_

Ah. Damian, the Robin. Batman's son - Bruce Wayne, that is. Whatever is up with the Wayne folks and their weird abilities; weird stalking, weird intentions.

 _"He looks like he wants to kill me"_ I type quickly, leaning into the door.

I still hadn't left the classroom. All of the students had and the door was closed, but I was still inside, neurotic with the possibility of being spied on as I talked to him.

_"It's not you he's mad with"_

I looked over the message a couple of times, but I didn't text back. I didn't really have anything else to say; anything else that wasn't intrusive, at least. 

Is Damian weirded out because his teacher is fucking his brother? Or is it some awful case of "horny teenager has a crush on his teacher", so he's jealous? Or even worse: is he being super protective of Jason? It's not rare to hear stories of people from all ages getting pissed off because their older sibling has found someone. There's a constant worry of "you deserve more, you deserve better". And coming from this family - a bunch of adrenaline crazed vigilantes who waltz around this city, pulling insane antics and playing god - it wouldn't be so surprising.

Leaning on the door as I reflected upon this, my mind disconnected from my body, somehow. The buzzing on my hand shook me of it, though - another message from Jason.

_"Relax"_

Ha. Of course not. But I didn't text that - I just closed the app and threw the phone back on my bag, finally opening the door to leave. 

Running out of the apartment to get to work on time, I never even got to touch the pancakes I made with Jason - in between kisses, snarks and laughs about stupid things I can't really recall. That's to say that by the time I locked the door behind my back and moved on to finally eat something, I was bitter and starved. And maybe after that, the kids who took history with me this afternoon would deal with a much more light-hearted teacher than the one the students from the morning got.

Maybe they did. Hopefully. I can tell for sure that the ones from the last period were gleaming with happiness on the last thirty minutes, but I recognize that probably had nothing to with me, but with the fact that they were half an hour away from finally going home. To their comfortable clothes, nice dinners, good wi-fi, Netflix accounts, Twitter, fanfiction, fantasy books - bad romances. Weird hobbies, assignments, anime. Porn.

I wanted to leave, too, so no judgment was weighed in.

I walked home like always: three keys positioned in between my knuckles, feet going so fast that you could almost call it running, bag and binder tucked close to my body. Gotham is no one's city, and somehow, everyone is ok with that - it's certainly easy when you're born inside that chaos already. There isn't much comfort they can take from you when you've never had any. It's hard to fill someone's soul with rebellion when they don't have a clue that there is something else in the world other than this - and the fragile line of reality shivers.

You can fuck them up, that's for sure: take a good look at this city and it's people. That's Gotham, I'd say: you're either crazy or tired (sometimes both; I've met a few).

My dinner, later on, is based on three bites from one of the leftover pancakes (that I eventually threw in the trash can) and a few sips of cold water. I was annoyed, fidgeting, pacing on the small living room like something was about to happen. Anxious, nervous (and kinda sick).

And the worst part: I couldn't really tell why. Sure, Damian's attitude was awful, but it shouldn't make me feel so nervous. I work with teenagers for a living, after all, and this is certainly not the worst or first time I have to deal with one of their antics.

As nervous as I was, the sudden noise coming from my phone made me jump. Someone was calling - and the "J" popping on the ID caller made it conflicting to decide if I was either happy or even more stressed out.

Sure. Maybe I was relieved.

 _"Hey"_ I breathe out, leaning into the kitchen counter.

 _"Hi. Are you alright?"_ Jason's voice came out on the other end of the call.

 _"Hm-hm"_ I nod, even though he can't see me.

 _"Yeah, that does sound like bullshit."_ I can almost see him rolling his eyes, and it makes me wonder if he could also "almost see" me nodding. _"Either way. You have a visitor on your rooftop. Come out to take a look, will you?"_

 _"I'm coming in a second"_ I say, happy that no one can see my stupid grin as I leave the phone on the counter to get out of the apartment.

Maybe Jason finally caught onto my advice to stop breaking in, like a creep.

After I locked the door from the outside, I rushed up the stairs, finding the old rusty door to the rooftop creaked open. The cold wind made a sinister whistling noise as it came inside. I wasn't dressed enough for this, but I walked out to the rooftop anyway, trying to ignore the shivers.

Although… It wasn't really Jason waiting for me outside.

Long cape, big sword, scrawny looking teenager.

-Hey kid. -I call him, taking a deep breath. -You want to talk?


	18. we can hear it!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI! HERE I AM!!!!! The time in this chapter is all twisted, because I thought that the story was flowing better that way. Progression goes slow, but it goes.  
> Again. It's a weird format, because I'm still writing from my phone.  
> Hmmmm.... That's it I guess. Come one come all

It was 2pm when Damian stomped downstairs to the cave, feet hitting against the floor soundly, still wearing his school's uniform. Bruce didn't have to look over his shoulders to recognize that it was Damian - his younger, smaller son moved faster than the others, besides his lightweight being clear on the sounds he made. Even Dick, who always tried his best, couldn't manage to be so gracious anymore. He was getting too old for that.

-Father. -Damian called out, demanding. By the distance of it, he guessed that the kid had stopped by the bottom of the staircase.  _ -Father _ .

-I'm listening. -Bruce sighed, raising his eyes from the computer screen to exchange a look with Dick, who was already looking at him expectantly. -What's wrong?

-What is Todd doing with my teacher? -Damian asked calmly, although his tone clearly held some anger to it. -I thought we all agreed that he should stay away from her.

Bruce finally looked at Damian. The kid was almost vibrating in all of his teenage rebellion. The stressful sight almost made a wave of tiredness wash over him, who had no idea of how to reply to that without being… Well, indelicate. Damian had definitely gotten The Talk before (from every single one of his family members, at that), but understanding the logistics of sex didn't mean that he, as cold and oblivious as always, understood the idea behind attraction.

And attraction often blurred the lines in between right and wrong - logic and utterly stupid. After all, Damian was standing right in front of them to prove his point.

-Did you ever consider that people don't choose who they like? -Dick smiled, sinking down in a chair next to Bruce, looking down at his phone.

-That's… Just a piece of the problem! -The boy exclaimed, taking some steps further. He was frustrated with every single one of them: with his selfish brother and their unimpressed relatives. -What happens next? She finds out who he is?

-No. -Dick shook his head dismissively, leaning back on his chair. -Jason isn't  _ that _ stupid. Don't worry about that.

-She already does. -Bruce makes a clean, quick correction, trying not to flinch at the way that both his sons jumped with his words.

_ -What?! _

-What exactly do you mean with that? -Dick spoke carefully, abandoning his phone on his lap and leaning forward to Bruce's direction.

Damian looked like he was about to burst into flames like a molotov full of needles, so Bruce elected to ignore his inflammable state and answered to his oldest son first.

-I'm not sure of how everything happened. Maybe it was on purpose, maybe it was effortless. Either way, she has it figured out. Jason. Me. -The man listed, trying to hold back a sigh. He turned to Damian, then, even though it was hard to take the kid's furious (and disappointed, to some extent) gaze. -She knows about you, too.

-Are you serious about this? -The boy questioned, starting to feel unusually cold. -She knows?

He tried to think about the last times they had seen each other, wondering what exactly gave it away. Wondering for how long she had known or how much of it affected the rest. All of those awkward encounters and weird conversations.

-Yes. 

-Isn't that dangerous? -Damian insisted, feeling as if he was the only one to understand how grave the situation was. -For everyone? For us, for h...

-Yes, it is. It's a very complicated situation and we can't erase someone's memory. -Bruce nodded in agreement, sitting down in a chair as well. Dealing with Damian could be exhaustive sometimes, and he was tired from way before opening his eyes on the morning. -On the other hand… You can't hate your brother for stepping out of the shadows once in a lifetime.

Damian didn't really understand what his father had meant, but Dick did. Jason was born and had lived through the epitome of chaos, feeding of all things dark and providing the world around him with all ramifications of it. Jason was, they all often thought, so lost inside that void that the idea of him getting out (or getting better) hardly ever crossed their minds.

-I think that what Bruce meant, Damian, -Dick started, trying to translate his words as clearly as possible. -Is that we can't take away Jason's chance to change.

-We can't hope for him to be like  _ this _ until the end of his days. -Bruce agrees, stretching the subject further. -Either way, don't think too hard about it. For all I know, it might not even last through the rest of the week.

Maybe too naive, Damian hadn't fully considered that before, but he now understood what his father and brother were implying - Jason and his teacher were, apparently, a little more than just weird friends. Which was unsettling to say the least.

-Or it might. -Damian insists, not satisfied with his father's quick fix of "they'll probably break up, anyway".

-Or it might. -Bruce agreed, his words being final as Damian marched out of the room just as frustrated as he had been before entering.




It was somewhere close to 10pm when I walked out. It was dark and cold. Depending on the way I looked, the colors Robin wore passed as black, or just very dark shades - but every now and then, I could make out the colors, primary, standing out. Simply toned down by the dark shadows in the rooftop. He stood like a statue, barely living, and despite his lack of welcoming (or any) words, I stepped forward to get closer to him anyway. Damian - or Robin, I mean, stood close to the balcony, facing something that I didn't really see on the skyline. Maybe it was nothing: maybe he was just a little too lost in thought, eyes set on a invisible memory that I definitely didn't own.

-I just got a call about a visitor. -I try, hoping to sound light-hearted. -I'm guessing that's you.

-Hm. -The weirdly clothed teenager nodded, diverting his eyes from the unknown to look at me. He stayed quiet for a while, maybe still debating if he was going to talk at all. He did. -I came here because… I didn't really want to, but… I guess that I want to let you know that you're possibly making the biggest mistake of your life. 

-Wow. -I breathe out, breaking my own personal goal to be completely calm throughout this conversation, like the pedagogy has nurtured me to be. -Just  _ wow _ .

-You're… You're intelligent, but you're not very smart.  _ -Robin _ goes on, ignoring me completely. -I don't know what's going on on your head, but I can say that this is the last thing you want to be a part of.

-Hey, hey, hey… What gave you the idea that I'm trying to be a part of anything, kid? -I shake my head, stepping closer to him once more. -I never wanted anything. Still don't and know that I won't, in the future. This… Whatever it is, this thing you do; it's not my style. I also think it's very stupid.

I had some confidence on my veins, for some reason. It gave me the bold assurance that for better or for worse, nothing but words could be used against me - and still, considering what we had started with, I doubted that it could get any worse. Unless masked Damian was even more of a dick than usual, I'd be just fine.

I like to think that I'm tough.

-Hm, it's not your style... -He nodded again, voice dripping with irony (which I don't truly appreciate). Damian sort of looked at me, although under Robin's domino mask, I couldn't be so sure of anything. -I wonder what is, though. Let me see if I have a hold of it; and please, tell me if I'm wrong. The classic romcom cliché "I've been thrown here so I'm going to roll with it instead of getting out, because it's much more fun to build a story on cheap plotlines".

Yeah. That did hurt a little more than what I was expecting. But again: he is a emotionally unstable teenager. They usually say hurtful things as a coping mechanism to feeling helpless - and they just don't realize the actual effects certain words have on the people around them. He's being rude and defensive, but I'm not going to call him out on anything. Doing something like that will only fire him up more and more. And I also can't try to sound like an innocent saint, because he'll assume I'm just trying to be a manipulative bitch.

Pedagogy, pedagogy. 

-Ok. So you're angry at me because you think that I'm intrusive. Is that it?

Damian's defensive stance changed. The boy leaned back, almost as if he was scared of what I had said.

-T-That's not… I didn't mean that! -He shook his head frantically, going back to the shy, nervous boy I know. -I'm just really… I'm just really frustrated because you're still  _ here _ .

While his words don't make a lot of sense isolated, I know exactly what he meant with that. "You're still here" as in "You're still in our lives. Still inside our private madness - which you're not supposed to be a part of". Which is perfectly reasonable in every single way possible, I'd say.

-And what was I supposed to do, again? Escape from the police in a investigation that you brought upon me? Never ask for  _ his _ help when I was locked inside a pontiac and the police didn't pick up the call? -I proposed, doing my best to keep my voice low, calm and steady. -I can't easily fall back into being standard "history teacher", while being told multiple times that I need to be careful  _ or else _ .

-The longer you twist inside this…

-It's hard to jump out and move on when I'm still trying to figure out how to stand up, D-  _ Robin _ . -I shake my head, wondering how much of his name I had pronounced before realizing. -It's not so simple.

-Hm. -He dropped his shoulders, but crossed his arms almost immediately. Probably missing the active point of tension on his body. -And how… If you don't mind the question. How… Is he going to help you stand up?

Oof. The Jason topic. The two of us barely understood what was going on, let alone trying to explain it for someone else (especially with the "someone else" being his little brother, whom I teach).

-Is it really crucial for you to know?

_ -Ew _ . -The boy's face twisted in disgust immediately. -Ew. Wow, that's disgusting. Ew!

-Are you going to repeat that again? -I cross my arms, a couple of "ew's" away from pushing him. -Really?

-No, that's awful, really. He's a terrible person, you know? He's a bad brother. Bad son. Bad citizen, bad vigilante, bad man. Bad at being decent. -Damian listed, mask still turned to my direction. The words spilling out of his lips weren't getting any easier, but his tone definitely had. -But… I think… I think that deep down, everyone knows he has… Kind of "not so bad" motives. He won't admit to it, either, but he's… I guess not the worst.

-Are you coming to terms with the fact that I…

-Don't finish that! Ew! -Damian shook his head, raising his hand in mock defense. -It's just… You need to be careful. The longer you stay around for, the… If you're really getting involved with him. You need to know that things won't ever get easier.

Ah, yes. The very same debate I've had with myself over and over again on the course of the past few weeks. This time around, though, coming from someone whose thoughts weren't clouded by the effects of Jason's dick. Damian was his brother, after all - he should know better than anyone else.

-Yeah, I know. -I nod, seemingly defeated, but hoping that it hadn't come through on my tone. -Either way. I'm assuming you talked to Jason.

-I had to, at some point. -Damian's expression didn't change much, but I assumed that he was rolling his eyes under that mask. -This is really weird.




It was barely 8pm when a somehow distracted Red Hood was immorally punched in the face. To be fair, he heard it before he felt it. Damian's fist was loud as it hit his metallic helmet, and then, when the thing's momentum passed onto his face, he  _ felt _ it.

He also saw the kid's flowing cape before actually seeing him.

Jason wasn't angry enough to hit Damian too, but he didn't hold back from throwing his younger brother across the floor.

-And what the hell was that for?!

No answer. The Wayne boy got up, but he didn't have a fight stance anymore - or for now, at least. Neither were looking for a fight (or to pick up on this one), but they didn't get much closer to each other either. On top of a tall residential building in New Gotham, Jason had no idea of how Robin had caught up with him (unless, of course, he was being followed).

-You're a motherfucking weirdo, do you know that? -Damian spat, shaking his head to the sides. -When did you start fucking my history teacher, you creep?

Jason's first thought was about when the fuck had his little brother started to cuss like that. The kid usually spoke like he was being watched over by Shakespeare, so the new vocabulary surprised him a little. Of course - Damian was a fifteen year old boy. There's a number of things that teenagers do behind their family's back: a number of things that Damian never took back home, where he usually acted like a bitchy robot.

The extra sassy personality was hidden somewhere. Along with what else? Did he also smoke weed on the meantime? Along with, huh, a secret a tattoo and a silent dream to be a DJ?

He hoped to never find out.

-Is it a crime? 

-It's not a crime, It's just weird! -Damian exclaimed, extending his arms to the sides. -We had agreed to fix your mess and get her out of it. What happened to that?

-I admit that I had the intention to go through with the plan when we first came up with it. -He shrugged, remembering the fit Damian threw then. -I didn't really have the intention to do any of what happened next.

_ "I didn't have the intention to feel so weird around her", _ Jason thought. He didn't dare say it, though. Probably never would.

-I hope you're aware that if anything ever happens to her, it's your fault. Just like everything that already happened was.

Damian doesn't give space for any type of answer with that statement. Jason doesn't try for one, either - he knows that his brother's words are true. It's his fault: everything was. He never walked back. Never refused the magnetism that pulled him towards her; he leaned into it.

-What do you want me to do now? -Jason sighs, knowing that there's only one thing he won't do.

-Now you do your fucking best to keep her safe, stupid. -The boy rolled his eyes, turning around to leave unceremoniously. -I'm going to pay a visit. Tell her to go upstairs. 




It was almost midnight when I heard someone knocking on my door. Hours away from the beginning of my working hours, I noted, before bitterly getting up from my bed to check on whoever it was.

There were no more knocks, but I could see the shadows on the minimal space under the door. Maybe I should go into the supermarket someday to get something to block that strip. It didn't feel too good to have any cracks in between my safe place and the rest of the world.

I leaned forward to see through the magic eye, but a low voice stopped me before I actually got to see anything. 

Jason's.

-It's just me. -He assured, sounding more tired than what I had ever witnessed before. Sounding just… Down. -You know who.

My fingers flew to the keys before I could actually ponder about it (or truly check). Well, Red Hood seemed perfectly fine when I opened the door: there weren't any visible bruises on his body; his clothes didn't even look dusty. But there was something off about him, I could tell - he looked upset. Not the "alarmed" kind of upset, no. More like the "sad" kind. I couldn't really see Jason with all of that vigilante outfit.

-Are you alright? -I ask, predicting his denial already. Jason doesn't really move, but he gives me a tiny nod that makes me want to shake him awake to get an actual reaction. -Come on, come inside.

I locked the door once he had moved out of the hallway, turning around just in time to see him taking off the helmet with a hiss.

His face seemed alright too.

-Did anything happen today? -I question him, trying to keep the desperate worry out of my tone.

-Hurricane Damian. -He grunts, leaning on the wall to detach the holsters on his thighs. -You look like it came this way too. Didn't he?

Ah. Damian. Did a round of psychological abuse today, didn't he?

-Did he tell you your life was ruined? -I proposed, rolling my shoulders back in a useless attempt to relieve some of the pressure there.

-Oof. Nah… He told me yours was, though. -Jason murmured, letting the holsters fall to the ground. He  _ did _ look tired. -Do you want to talk about it?

Not really. I didn't want to talk - or think - about anything. I wanted to close my eyes and erase myself from existence for some time. To forget the khanjar, the police, the assassins, Bruce Wayne and his fucking fursona, his poorly behaved son with little to no boundaries. Maybe Red Hood, too. I could forget him for a night.

I didn't want to forget Jason, though. He could stay.

-He was more rude than usual. -I admit, moving to the couch and sitting in the end. -Harsh words, harsh words, harsh words... I think it's his way of being protective.

-Of you. -He nods, getting off the wall to come next to me.

-Of  _ you _ . -I correct, watching his face for any expressions.

It twists.

-The kid hates me. -Jason murmurs, sitting by my side. The couch sinks a little with his weight, gravity propping me closer to him. Whenever he wore the whole Red Hood thing, Jason's scent of gunpowder was much stronger. He smelled a lot more metallic, too, though I couldn't really figure out what it was.

-He loves you. -I shake my head, passing an arm behind his back and resting my hand on his shoulder. -He's just trying to protect you and the rest of the family. That's all.

Jason doesn't debate, but I can tell that he wants to. I move my hand from his shoulder, then, touching the side of his face and bringing him close to me. I kiss his temple, gently, hoping that the tiny gesture is big enough to brace the entirety of the world.

It hardly is, but I can hope.

Jason looks at me with something on his eyes - it's happiness, I see. Soft and light and heartwarming.

I can hope.


	19. It's parallel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HELO. I'M HERE. I DIDN'T FORGET. This chapter is really fluffy. Fluffy - I like this word. A bunch of people complimented my ability to take things slow, but in this chapter I'm kind of running at light speed. It felt right, though, so I don't know. It's been 18 chapters.  
> I had so many lovely angels say beautiful, heart warming things, and I want you all to know that every single one of you is safely guarded in my heart.  
> I love you.  
> Here goes the chapter, hope you like it

It was easy. Well, sometimes it  _ wasn't _ , but I started to find some sort of easiness in being around him. Like we were getting awfully domestic - and it was truly nice. Making dinner together and eating under the blue lights from the TV, despite the fact that I had already eaten. 

Jason left that night - and he didn't come back during any other day of the week. Other than a message on thursday, asking me if I was "still alive", he had pretty much disappeared. I would like to believe that he was just terribly busy, even though it implied a lot of danger coming his (or my) way.

Somehow, it felt much better than the prospect of him going away with no possible conversation first. Just ghosting - which is terrifying! I've had the same guy for years and even though he was kind of awful, he was always within reach. And on the years before that, I had never been ghosted either: despite being a little boring, I was a pretty teenager. The boys around me usually tried their best until the end to make the kill.

And now… Being left in the dark was truly as maddening as it could be. It felt as if I was daydreaming with an insensible wall, speaking out but in the end, only talking to myself. Jason left this kind of effect sometimes. It wouldn't be the first and even though I hoped, it certainly wouldn't be the last.

I missed him. Yeah. I missed him and I wanted to see him - and I wanted to know if he was alright. It had been a while and all things considered, I was getting a little worried too. I needed to hear something, or at least  _ read. _ It was amidst a freezing cold saturday morning when the paranoia got the best of me and I finally built the courage to text him.

_ "You better be alive." _

I stared at the phone for a couple of minutes, leaning on my kitchen counter. It took a while until Jason texted back, but he did anyway. I happened to still be staring at the bright screen, but on my defense, I was definitely spacing out, eyes glazed over.

_ "the way you say it, sounds like a threat" _

_ "maybe it is", _ I sent, rolling my eyes.

He didn't text back immediately and to be fair, I didn't really expect anything else. Jason - or Red Hood - had always been a little on the enigmatic side, so I just told myself that it was enough (even though it kind of wasn't). Before I could move my fingers to close the app, though, a call came up - and it was him, of course.

_ "Yes, I'm alive. Sounds believable to you?" _ \- his voice came through, sarcastic.

_ "You can go fuck yourself, Jason" _ \- I grumbled, getting off the counter to get something from the fridge.

What would I eat, anyway? Eggs? Pancakes? A sandwich? Fruits? Perhaps a nice cup of cold water and going back to bed? Ah, the multiple joys of lonely, lazy saturdays.

_ "Hey, are you alright?" _

_ "Yeah, of course. I mean… I don't know, you're the one who knows everything about  _ **_those_ ** _ things. Is everything alright?" _

_ "Hm… Yeah. That's complicated. Really complicated, when it comes to it. Or those people. As long as… Well, long story short, there is no effective fix for that. For now, things are fine. They're not going to bother you anymore, that's for sure. But we can't make them disappear either. It's… Complicated. It's been years." _

_ Years _ . It's been years since those guys have been around? It's been years and they never really went away?

Yeah, it doesn't make me feel better. In fact, it just makes me a lot more anxious than what I had been before, but freaking out is hardly ever my modus operandi (which might be a lie), so I just take a deep breath and shake my head.

_ "Ok. Cool." _

_ "I'm sorry about that"  _

_ "No. It's fine. We've been over this already. It's just… Very weird and very new. Although… I don't know, it's also getting a little bit old" _

Jason's laugh eases my chest a little bit - and it did bring a smile to my face. That stupid, stupid man.

_ "See? It's not so bad. You're a tough girl, I know it." _ Jason's tone is borderline ironic, which doesn't do much to help me cool off and go easy on him.

_ "Are you trying to tease me? It's not working, Todd. Up your game a little." _

_ "Hm. What a poor man gets for a little love." _




-Jason? Are you inside? -Dick's voice came from the hallway, sounding somewhat worried.

Anything slightly suspicious that came from Jason was frightening and completely nerve wrecking until the contrary was proved. So when Dick heard the door being shut loudly and then found it locked, it was an euphemism to say that he got a little tense.

-I'm on the kitchen. -Jason said, rolling his eyes back and pouring coffee on the plastic cup that he had found on the cabinet.

-And what the hell was that? -Dick asked, coming to the kitchen as well.

Jason could picture his brother's confused expression way before he came into view. Dick's obsession for control was annoying, but it wasn't new. He was used to it, though, just like Dick was used to Jason's usual indifference and chaotic energy.

-What? -He pretended to not understand, taking another sip from the plastic cup.

It was his third.

-Slamming the door like a teenager? -Dick prompted, pointing to the hallway behind him. -Why is it locked?

Oh.  _ That _ . Of course. Jason had barely planned his own words before they actually left his mouth. And they weren't the worst - no, not at all. They were… Accidental, if you will, and completely harmless under untrained eye. Maybe - hopefully, she hadn't picked up on it like he had. Hopefully she wasn't replaying the word on her head, and hopefully he'd never even find out what her reaction had been.

_ love _ .

Now what the fuck was that? Why the hell had he said it? It was the most senseless thing he could have possibly done and that's considering that he's been through a number of things along with that woman. Jason kept hearing the word echoing inside his brain over and over again until he couldn't even remember why he was so mad at it anymore.

_ "It's not so hard, you got it already" _ was her answer.

Jason froze a little when he heard it. The phrase forced him to think about what he had said on the first place, and he hated it. Once again - why in the actual fuck did he have to say that? Then he ended the call with some stupid excuse that was definitely a lie, hid the phone under his pillow, stormed out of the room and locked the door behind him.

As if to hide from her. 

The small key was deep inside his pocket and it felt way too hot for it be anything other than his imagination.

-Nothing. I just have emotions sometimes. -Jason rolled his eyes, looking at his brother from head to toe. Dressed to work. -It's not going to happen again, sir.

-Well, yeah, the door is already closed. -Dick rolled his eyes as well and took the coffee pot from the counter. -I leave in 20. You're staying here tonight?

Jason was lured into Blüdhaven in the beginning of the week, under plenty of dramatic quotes and Dick's emotional blackmail. He wanted help to track some guy named Kyle Higgins and regardless of the number of times that Jason had said "no", he ended up going anyway.

Their friday night had ended kind of bloody - and exhaustive, as they carried the passed out bandit into the back alley of the police department Dick worked at. It was probably somewhat different than what most brothers do for fun in nights like that, but it was what it was. Neither of them would ever complain out loud.

Dick loved to play innocent and harmless, but the motherfucker knew how to get into some really fucked up trouble sometimes - which Jason truly appreciated. It was a respectable feat.

But they were done, finally - he could now go back to Gotham. Only god knows how badly he had been looking forward to that: Jason had been shaking under his skin to go back to  _ her.  _ It almost felt like abstinence, and that's coming from a man who had tried his fair share of drugs on the past.

Nothing had ever felt so good - because it didn't really wear off and there were no side effects. There was no sickness, no vertigo, no paranoia, no fear, no cold sweat, no bleeding noses or even the dreadful disappointment that always came with coming down from his high. There was no dissociation.

Time passed just right, little by little, and he knew that it was the normal rate. Lately, Jason had been living through reality: things placed exactly where they were supposed to be, all sounds real rather than a product of his own imagination, colors and light and shades adjusted to the measurement of reality.

Nowadays, the world hardly ever was a psychedelic dance of wicked silhouettes, moving under the many hues of red his unfaithful mind made up. 

And no disease goes away without medication, he thinks - so what the hell was that?

Why did she make him feel so right? Not just good, not just content, not just satisfied. It went way over sex or a loneliness fix: she felt right. Like something that should always be there, rather than a secret, providing stolen moments he couldn't dare say out loud. He wanted more - god, he needed more.

And wasn't him a liar? It had been a lie and he knew it. Untrue to his words, Jason knew exactly what was going on: he was doing his best to keep her safe, yes, but he was also doing his best to keep her close. Forever: hopefully, forever. He wanted her.

-Nah, I'm getting the fuck outta here. -Jason shook his head, getting up from the stool that he had been sitting on. -I'm gonna go get my shit and I'm leaving this fucking town. And you better not call me again, golden boy.

Jason couldn't see it as he left the kitchen, but Dick was smirking at him. The older man drowned it out on the way too black coffee his brother had made, trying not to cringe. He knew, perhaps better than anyone else, that Jason's threat was empty.

He would definitely call again. Jason would definitely answer.

They both knew it - but they weren't going to acknowledge something like that just yet. Or any time soon, really. Communication skills weren't something that Bruce had passed down to any of them.




I had actual work to do. There were a number of things that I should look into and deal with before my weekend really "started". A teacher's job goes way over the paid working hours, after all, and that had never been a secret to anyone. I should have done a lot of things, but after that goddamned phone call… I spent the entire day curled on the couch like a cat, regardless of how badly I cursed myself for not doing anything.

He was just kidding! It was a joke, of course. He didn't really mean "love" the way I saw it at first glance, it was just a joke! And then… I had to be a creep and answer to him like that instead.

Why in the actual hell did I have to say any of that?

Am I really so desperate to come out of this sad veil of loneliness that I started to haunt the people around me? Even the ones who are definitely three, four universes of distance away. I mean - what are the odds that Jason Todd, the vigilante, part time weirdo, somehow part of the Wayne family, has an honest, true, actual interest in me?

Maybe he just wanted sex - yeah, maybe that was his primary interest in me. And maybe that's why I creeped him out so fast, early in the morning, talking about… Love? Or… I don't know. Maybe it isn't just sex, for him, but I went way too fast anyway.

Why did I have to do this?

-Fuck! -I screamed to myself, rolling on my back, covering my eyes with my hands.

I had been lying on that thing for way too long. My body was definitely starting to ache and the couches fabric was getting unbearably hot against my skin - on top of that, I hadn't showered during any time of the day. I hadn't even fucking changed from my pajamas.

I truly spent the entire day cringing to myself on the couch.

It was nearly 4pm when I forced myself to come out of it. In slow, painful steps, I walked to the bathroom. Not bothering to turn on the lights, I pushed my clothes off and allowed the cold water to cool off my skin. The shock was nice, but mainly because I stopped thinking about any other thing that wasn't the fact that my body was freezing.

One way or another, it was great.

Soaking wet, the towel wrapped around my body didn't do much to stop me from shivering. Despite being hell, Gotham was hardly ever anything other than cold.

-I want to take you out.

I could tell that the scream that crawled out of my throat was blood chilling. I jumped back, hitting the back of my head against the wall, almost dropping the towel to the floor My heart picked up on that crazy rhythm again, of all things, and I caught myself a little out of breath.

It wasn't possible for me to acknowledge out loud how badly I wanted to hit his head with a frying pan without being deemed a danger to society. Clinically insane, if you will.

-Jason, what the fuck?! -I screamed again, this time by choice, letting my hand move to the back of my head.

He was standing close to the window. Wearing jeans and a black hoodie, looking as normal as I had ever seen him - and it was a nice look. His posture was a little off, though, and judging by the funny expression on his face, Jason was... Scared?

I mean... I did scream at him twice. And I really meant to.

-I was saying… That I want to go out with you? -Jason tried again, pointing to the window behind his back. Outside. -I should… I'm sorry. I should probably stop doing this.

-No! It's… No, it's fine. -I shake my head dismissively, crossing my arms in front of my chest. Just to have something to do with them, really, because I didn't really mind getting naked in front of him anymore. -You scared me.

-I know. I'm sorry. -He shook his head too, eyes closed, looking awfully pale. -It's just…

-Wait. Did you… Did you say that you want to go out with me?

Did he? Jason looked like he was seconds away from throwing up and I'm not sure if that's a good sign. It was a little different than the usual confident half man/half vigilante I know - he looked younger too, in moments like this. Is he unsure or just… Nervous? 

It wouldn't be the first time I bitterly daydreamed about being with him - like normal people do, I mean. Under the daylight, under the curious or indifferent eyes of friends and complete strangers. No panopticon paranoia - no fear of being seen, no fear of being caught.

No fear of being punished.

I'd like to talk and act like there isn't something life threatening happening on the background, for once. I want to fish out more of these moments in which Jason actually acts his age - with the playful banter, the stupid jokes, the weird thoughts and his adorable laughter. I don't get enough of that, even though it's my favorite part of him.

And I want more of it. I think… No, I  _ know _ that I want him.

-Yeah. I think that's what I've been trying to say. I don't think I know you well enough. -The man nodded again, his voice gaining a little confidence. -I want to get out of this apartment. But I want you to come with me. In normal hours, like day and afternoon and night. I don't want to sneak in or out at 2am, eyes low so the cameras don't catch me.

I could have sworn that my heart jumped a little. It felt like that and it was definitely a new sensation. I knew my answer already, but for the total of 5 seconds (or 5 hours; I wouldn't know) I could not remember a single word to say.

-Out. -It's the first thing I manage to pronounce, still not sure of what it actually meant.

-You want me to get out? -Jason asked with furrowed brows, extending both arms to the door's direction.

Oh, he looked sick - and I felt like it, too. Maybe I looked just as bad as him.

-No! No. I mean… Out. Yeah! Yeah, I… Let's… Do this. I want to go out with you, yes, like normal people. -I shake my head, crossing the room to get to him. My feet felt weird as they hit the floor. Was I shaking? -And for fucks sake, I want you to stop sneaking in.

I guess that just like me, Jason had also lost his ability to comprehend and communicate in the english language. He was quiet for a while, face expressing not a single thing other than confusion. Eventually - which was either in ten seconds or a full hour, he laughed. 

And I think I laughed too, although an outsider might have called it "giggling" instead.

-Ok. Ok. Ok, now… We need a plan on how to approach this. We… We can either go out now, which doesn't leave us with a lot of options, or we can do it later. -He stated seriously, as if going on a date with me was something like a mission. -What do you think?

-Do you have to be anywhere later?

-Why is that?

Yes. Yes, I wanted to ask him to stay over. And well, it wouldn't be a first, but I'm sure that the last time it happened had been just a consequence, rather than a plan. And what are the chances that he can actually stay? I never figured out if Red Hood has a working schedule; I don't know how free he is to stay with me, how badly he has to go.

It was hard to tell if I was just crossing my arms or trying to hug myself.

-Let's go out now and have coffee. We can talk: I want to know you too. -I nod, searching for a confirmation on his eyes that it was ok. They were welcoming, this time around. His expression was soft and as I looked at him, my mind could only process how badly I wanted to kiss him. -And… If we don't hate each other by the time the coffee is over, we come back home and I'll cook you dinner. Full schedule. What do you say?

It's safe to say that it was physically painful for me to say all of that out loud. Even harder to do it without cringing, but I managed.

And if Jason hated it, he didn't let it show. He was smiling like an idiot, actually, which was kind of adorable - and heartwarming.

-Full schedule.

-Yeah? -I ask again, so stupid, needing much more assurance than that.

I wanted to slap myself. I sounded like an idiot - which, well, isn't new, but still! Jason either caught some of that energy flooding off me or was just a completely oblivious, lovely man, because he cradled my face with both hands and pulled me into a kiss.

It had an instant, miraculous, calming effect on me.

-Full schedule. -He smiled again, letting his hands fall from my face. -Now dress up.

I was a little frozen in place, watching Jason leave my bedroom to wait outside - and he didn't close the door, that motherfucker. Not that I really cared, at this point. After placing the towel over the bed, I walked to the wardrobe and stared at it.

My heart was still slamming against my chest like it was beats away from ceasing - and I looked forward to that. I wanted it to stop and then to pick up on that rhythm again. It felt right. I wanted him to come and take it. My poor, fragile yet enduring, fire forged heart. 

Fuck.


	20. falling into

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my darling friends! Yes I took a while, but no I didn't forget (it's carnaval here in Brazil, so things get a little busy).  
> So huh..... This is next to the last chapter. Penultimate. Eve of goodbye. I have it planned out, just not sure of when I'll finish. Either way......  
> Here it goes. Things are getting sweet. Getting sticky. Not sure if it's a good chapter but there it goes.  
> Hope you like it!

-You wanna hear it the simple way?

-What do you mean "the simple way"?

-Trust me, it's simple.

_ Simple _ . Huh. I do like this word - or I used to, at least. Somewhere in the past, although not too far from this very present. Jason is hardly ever simple: in fact, for as long as I've known him, all this man ever does is over complicate things. So I'd say that maybe, when it comes to him, discarding "simple" should be the right thing to do, the over complicated being the best way to get around things.

And yet, considering that "simple" is hardly ever an option, I choose to take the rare opportunity and go with it.

-Go on.

-Sure. I started out with an addicted mother. Then, turned street kid, turned Bruce Wayne's ward, turned Robin n°2, turned a little dead, turned Red Hood. -He stated matter-of-factly, face very devoid of emotion.

I turned my head around as soon as the words left his mouth, trying to see if anyone had caught onto what he had said.

The coffee shop was a tiny thing, hidden in between a tattoo parlor and a mechanic shop. There wasn't even a sign outside, just a cloudy showcase glass that made it possible to see tables and chairs inside. And while it wasn't packed, it wasn't empty either. Some tables were taken and clients came in and out every ten minutes.

Anyone could have listened. When I turned back to scold him, though, Jason looked as if he was defying me to say something.

He must have done that before. Maybe no one ever really listens - or maybe they do, but he really doesn't care.

_ -"A little dead". _

-Yeah... I got killed: Robin shit. Years ago. -Jason shrugged, as if his explanation was completely acceptable. -I came back a little crazy, but I came back anyway. Still on the process of healing.

Oh.

-How long ago? -I ask, praying not to step on any sensitive bruises.

He's still healing. Whatever it means: mentally or physically, it's not done yet. And I don't know what it means, to have died - to have been killed. As Robin, at that. Someone murdered Jason when he was Robin. Who? Was it one of those city freaks? An accident? How do you come back from death? Sure, there's a lot of crazy shit going on around here. I don't think anything is unbelievable after Superman, but still, it's a strange thing to hear (and hard to believe).

Wait. He  _ was _ Robin? Had he said that before?

-I was fifteen.

Fifteen. Fifteen year old Robin got murdered. Wait! No, no, no… He did say it. He called himself Robin n° 2. Who was first? Was Damian the third? If so, they had a large window of time in between 2 and 3.

-Jason, how old are you? -I blurt out, for once noticing that I had never known the answer to that question.

What are the odds that he is like one of those nineteen year olds who, for some reason, look way older than that? Fuck no.  _ Fuck no. _

-I'm twenty four. 

I could feel my body releasing a lot of tension as he spoke, decompressing the almost solid air from my lungs.

-Twenty four? That's… So good. I'm twenty four too.

-I know. -Jason smirks at me, leaning back on his chair.

Of course he does, the motherfucking stalker. Of course he knows my age, like he knew my name and my address and, so frequently, my localization. Wherever I was - and however he did it.

-You know, I can hate you sometimes. -I shake my head, not really meaning any of my words.

-That's good. It's healthy. -Jason is smiling, and he looks twenty four. He also looks like he knows I never really hate anything. -So… I know you graduated twenty one, almighty Gotham University. You've been working on the brat's school ever since. Grew up in an apartment with your parents, studied your whole life. No tragic backstory.

A months-younger me would have been honestly terrified. I am not, however, anything but annoyed.

-That's not fair. You say "you died" like it's super common and now you won't even give me an explanation? 

-I can give you one, but it will probably just make you a lot more confused. -He shrugs, spinning the coffee cup on his hands.

I wondered if he could feel it, or if it burned. I knew Jason's hands all too well - they weren't soft, delicate or thin. He knew how to use them like an artiste, for sure, but those were the hands of a brute. Maybe he didn't even notice how hot that stupid paper cup was. I mean, thinking about it, Jason has always been some sort of half man, half 21st century neanderthal to me. Perhaps his hands were really rough like that - but maybe, just maybe, there was some enhancement to it. And, somehow, he isn't just a fully normal, properly functioning and naturally made man.

-Go ahead, fuck me up.

Jason looks unsettled, but he doesn't back off from me; or my inquisition. "No secrets", we were saying. Dare he step back from that and so would I - and he knows this.

-There's a place far the fuck away from here, for everyone's good luck. Under the control of the people who took you, that time. -His voice is lower than before, which I do appreciate. He doesn't move from his position, though, and I struggle a little to hear what he says without leaning into the table like an idiot. -That's where I was taken after my death. They have some bibity-bobity-boo shit going on there, that heals everything. Made by… Well. Damian's grandfather. And, huh… Damian's batshit crazy mother. 

_ -What? _

-Yeah.

_ -No. _

-Yeah.

_ -Damian?! _

My hands are flattened out on the table, which I don't remember doing. I'm also aware that I might look a little crazy, because I do feel like it. 

He had called them "the league of assassin's", another day. What the fuck does Damian have to do with that?

-I told you: it's complicated. Bratboy was raised there, by sicko mom. Bruce only found out about the kid when he was like 9. I actually met Damian before everyone else did. -Jason shrugged, leaving the cup on the table. He hadn't taken a single sip of it. -I was trained by his mother. Worked with her; for her, I mean. Then, I came back here and tried to kill everyone. Good times, trust me.

What the fuck? What the fuck? What the fuck?

-Jason,  _ what? _

-Don't make me say "I told you" again. -Jason rolls his eyes, reaching out to play with the cup. To have something to do with his hands, I see; he's anxious. -We've been… All these years, just trying to deal with the brainwashing. His and mine. It's worse for the kid, though. I think because he was raised there, and they're still his family.

Ok. Damian. Damian murder baby. Jason murder teenager. Damian and murder family. Jason and murdering. The two of them and… Healing. I understand all of those things separately, but my brain twists when I try to unite all of the information in a single thought.

-I really don't want to say it, but this explains a lot about that little fucker. -I sigh, leaning into my chair and reaching for my cup as well. It was getting cold. 

I hadn't been drinking any of it, either.

-Yeah. -He whispers, nodding to himself. Looking at his hands. -As I was saying. It's complicated.

Jason doesn't wear any emotions on his face, but it's not hard to tell that this is the last thing he wants to talk about. And I don't want to push any further, even though the death part is still bugging me. I want to know, I really want to know - it feels off, like there's a lot more to it. And on top of that, it just makes me think that there are some Robin-Killing things out in Gotham, meaning that Damian might be in some sort of danger, just like Jason had been.

-It's all good with your family now? -I ask, trying to step back from the topic.

-Yeah... We're on a good phase right now. The less kids Bruce has home, the more reckless he gets. So now Dick and I; and Cass, too, we're kind of juggling time to make sure that there's always someone with him and the kid. It has worked so far, but it's not like we can hold this for too long. Damian is growing fast.

-These are all siblings?

I don't ask what I really want to ask. I don't ask if "the more reckless he gets" means dangerous to Damian or to himself. The nineteen year old in me, who had just finished a child psychology class, wanted to call the child services to report Bruce Wayne. Twenty four year old me was terrified of being slammed in court for calumny. 

-Yeah. Damian is the only one by blood, though. The rest of us were kind of rescue puppies. -Jason muses, taking a sip from his cup.

I bet it was cold.

-And everyone got a tragic backstory too? -I prompt, trying to imitate him and taking a sip of coffee as well. It was, in fact, cold and I did not hide my disgust nearly as well as Jason did. -In the family, I mean.

-Oh, yeah. We're all about the tragic backstories. -He nods happily, thankfully not issuing my moment with the cold coffee. Jason's aura had left some of that dark shadow behind, which I also didn't point out loud (as I never do). -It builds character, you know.

He's smiling now, which is my clue to step away from all of that. I can learn things slowly: I don't want to, but I will.

-I feel like I shouldn't know half the things you just told me.

-Huh, yeah… You shouldn't. You shouldn't be anywhere near me, either. -Jason shrugs, leaning in to rest both elbows on the table. He wasn't smiling, but the open and relaxed expression on his face made my chest feel like it was exploding. -But we've been doing things wrong from day one, I guess. Actually… I think we kind of did everything backwards.

-Hmmm… Yeah, usually the dates take place before the sex. -I nod, watching his face become pink like some fucking bashful flamingo from South America. I love it. -Also the dramatic identity reveal, goes way into the story. We definitely got ahead of ourselves.

Jason's laugh is my favorite thing. It's so stupid - it's a stupid thing and I love it. It makes me want to grab his face and hold him against my chest.

-It's true. So… Any other thing you need cleared?

Yes! So many things! It's like I've gotten so much information and yet, I don't know a decent percentage of him. What's with Bruce? Why does he keep collecting kids? Why do they all turn out like this? Will he keep doing it? Why on earth did he get one of those weirdos pregnant? Why is Damian now with his father and not with his mother? How did Jason die? Is it safe? Is he good? Is "Jason Todd", the civilian, even a thing?

-One question and I'm good. -I propose, putting the coffee away and interlocking my fingers on top of the table. Jason was still smiling, amused, which I took as a clue to go on. -Do you have a real, perfectly legal, day job that I can actually tell people about?

I mean - it's a valid doubt. Is Red Hood his only thing? What does he do for a living? Where is his money coming from? You see, my mom has taught me that you don't just get involved with people who want nothing in life - people with no prospect of future. What if Jason's only aspiration is to be Red Hood? That's not going to work after his forties - if he lives that long, that is. I don't need a businessman or another engineer, but someone with a job feels essential.

Jason gave me a look that meant he either thought it was a funny question, which is sort of unnerving, or caught onto the "I'm telling people about him" part. But besides the smug expression, he didn't point anything out - smart man, learning how to shut up. I wonder if he analyzes me the same way I do him. If every once in a while he studies my reactions and backs off, deciding upon the best way to deal with me.

Meh. Hardly, right? I'm not so complicated.

-I work in a mechanic shop.

Oh.

-You're a mechanic! -I say, over excited with the so, so ordinary answer.

Jason is a mechanic! It's such a normal job! It's a real, normal people job. A teacher and a mechanic - that works! I love it! He likes the stupid motorcycle, I know that. It kind of fits, now that I think about it: it's not hard at all to imagine him being a mechanic. Fixing or working on whatever it is mechanics do in mechanic shops. Cars and motorcycles and whatever.

In Gotham, of all places, where the pavement is all fucked up and there's accidents and explosions everywhere, I bet it's a good market.

-Wow, do you have a kink or something? -Jason bites his lower lip, ever so sarcastic. -I thought your thing was for outlaws and vigilantes.

Jason has this playful expression on his face that makes him look perfect. The light makes his eyes look amazing and his smile is incredible. I have to fight myself a little to refrain from kissing him over the table, and I barely succeed. It does weird things to my body when he looks at me like this: I am, in fact, severely attracted to his many personalities, however… Smiling, playful, light hearted Jason makes my heart…

Ew!

-You can go fuck yourself. -I smile back at him, unable to be too mean or too harsh, even though I wish I could.

I feel like I'm stupid and I feel like I'm in love. It's what I had realized on my bedroom, when he left me alone earlier - that I am both stupid  _ and _ in love.

These two elements go together sometimes.

-Well, for all effects, you know a lot more about fucking  _ me _ than what I do. And now that we have learned about this kink of yours, I bet things will get a lot more interest…

-You really are the worst, Jason.  _ And _ insufferable. -I interrupt his teasing, taking the coffee cup from the table and getting up to leave. -So... Did you ever eat chicken breast stuffed with bacon?

It was a fast ride. Despite our earlier negotiation, we did not have dinner at all. Ingredients were never even taken off the fridge - I never even looked to the kitchen's direction. Once we had gotten inside, Jason slammed me into the door like those people do in the movies and kissed me like he was hungry for it. Wrestling a hoodie was much easier than wrestling vigilante body armor and taking it off him without struggling felt like victory.

We undressed each other like eager teenagers and taking that into consideration, I didn't allow Jason's rough and anxious hands get anywhere near my bra. It wasn't necessarily expensive and definitely not sexy, but it was one of my favorites anyway. He took my jacket, though, and my shirt and my pants and had even started a fight of his own with my panties, too impatient to let me take them off on my own.

This time around there was no laughing, no bickering, no slow kisses or foreplay. Jason just spared me one questioning look and then cornered me into the wall like an animal - and that's the word I choose, because an animal is exactly what I felt like.

Once I had Jason over me, getting him closer and closer was the only thing I could register. He had always been careful with me: trying not to hurt, trying not to bruise, trying not to overstep. This time around, though, his touches were much less calculated, as he followed his instincts rather than thinking through every step. I could feel his hands pressing into my body, possessive, and I leaned into him asking for more - mentally begging him to take more. 

Having him inside me with no previous foreplay was definitely different. On the down side, it wasn't so easy to take it, but on the good side, I was unattended enough to want to be fucked into oblivion and he seemed to be just in the right mood for that. And I never expected Jason to be able to support my weight, but he did. I kept one leg down on the beginning, which was supposed to make things easier for the two of us - Jason got impatient, though, and in all of that possessive neanderthal haze of his, he just took me of the ground and kept me in the wall, relying in nothing but him.

And god, I loved him. I loved how he made "hot" and "viscous" feel good and addicting rather than unsettling and disgusting. I loved the way he moved and the way he made me feel - and that he could make me feel.

We collapsed on the floor like ragdolls.

All the muscles on my legs felt as if they were shrinking, the rest of my body just as sore. I could feel parts of me I didn't even know existed. My heart was going fast, my skin felt too hot and my ears were ringing for some reason.

We didn't move from where we were tangled on the floor until the sun was gone. I felt stupid and in love and I never felt better.

We showered together, not for the first time. We made the small space work, even though it wasn't necessarily the easiest thing to do. While I went looking for a clean set of pajamas, Jason went back to the living room to find his clothes where I had thrown them. After god knows how long, we finally started the dinner that had been proposed earlier: chicken breast stuffed with bacon, carrots and zucchinis grated like spaghetti, braised with chard and broccoli.

Easy and fast and good. Somewhat chic.

-I'm assuming you don't have a five year old's taste buds. -I provoke him, taking two plates from the cabinet and placing them on the counter. -Because we have a vegetable situation here. It's my master territory.

Jason was watching me from one of the stools, halfway through a wine glass. I had some stashed in the kitchen, though I had no idea if it was a good match to the dinner I had cooked - I've never been a wine connoisseur.

-I'll have you know that I do like vegetables. And fancy food. And vegetables cooked fancy. -He defied me, taking an Oscars worthy, dramatic sip of wine. -You know… Bruce Wayne can barely make a sandwich on his own, but he has Alfred, who is his omniscient and omnipresent butler. Alfred can cook everything in the world and make it delicious. He had me appreciating cucumbers and beets and I can't even remember why I didn't like them in the first place.

-Cucumbers are awful. -I point, taking the pan with the chicken from the stove. -Change my mind someday.

Jason smiles at me like he appreciates the challenge. He also appreciates the food and does the dishes after we're done eating. And it's early - god knows I'm tired, but it's too early to go to bed. So I turn the TV on for background noise and we sit together on the couch, talking back as the news reports things too absurd to keep quiet about and keeping an eye on my instagram timeline.

-Man, Gotham is a fucked up place. -Jason shakes his head when the reporter talks about a mother of two who died during a double mastectomy earlier this morning.

Apparently, a city councilor had been deflecting oxygen cylinders from the hospitals to make craft beer.

-What happens to this guy? I bet he won't spend a day in jail. -I look at him, suddenly remembering that off-court punishment is precisely his thing. It didn't sound like a Red Hood job, though, but he probably knew a lot more about that kind of stuff than what I did. -Hm?

-I bet the bat will rough him up a little. Not now, though. When the dust settles. -Jason murmurs, pulling me closer to him (as if we weren't close enough already).

I want to ask him if it's strategic or just fun, but I decide upon keeping it to myself - not sure if I'd like to hear the actual answer to that. So I take my eyes back to the phone, distracting myself with the world of happiness built by Instagram. There's friends, coworkers, some students, some relatives, celebrities, brands, strangers…

Then there's my mom. There's a picture of her wearing a bright pink dress in the main avenue, holding some bags on her arms. She looks happy - but again, so does everyone else on Instagram. So... My girl went shopping, huh?

-Hey, Jason. -I whisper, turning the phone to his direction. -That's my mom.

I don't have to analyze his smug expression for too long to realize that he already knows that. Of course.  _ Of course _ he stalked my parents, on his way to stalking me. He knows her, like he probably knows him, along with my friends and my coworkers and my stupid fucking ex.

-It was a background check. -Jason raises both hands in defense, failing to fight back a smile. -It's the usual procedure, I swear I'm not a creep.

_ -Oh _ , you're such a creep.

-I'm not a creep. I'm righteously cautious.

-Shut your stupid mouth, Todd. -I shake my head, easing back into his embrace rather than continuing the discussion.

-She looks scary. I see where you got it from. -He muses, keeping his arms tight around me to make sure that I don't detangle myself again. -So… Does she know about your brush with the law?

_ Shit _ .

-Well, there's a lot she doesn't know about. -I shake my head, sinking into his chest slowly. I still need to talk to her about so many things, but at this point, I can't tell what is more important or how to start. In fact, I can't even remember the last time we talked to each other. -Don't make me think about it.

Jason takes the command a lot more seriously than necessary. He stays quiet, hands caressing my back and my thighs, which manages to be a lot more soothing than exciting. And in the silence, we listen to the news. Shots have been fired in the back of Old Gotham and the police is finding bodies scattered around the city - there's something in action, they just don't know what.

I close my eyes, waiting for Jason to announce that he has to leave. The sorrowful apology and the quick exit. It never comes, though. When I open my eyes again, he's just as laid back and unbothered.

He doesn't leave that night.


	21. Marvelous

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi there. This is the very last chapter of Dissociation (make it red). So, uh... We've been here since July 2019! It's a long way to go and I'm happy to finish, even though it hurts a little.  
> My readers are incredible and your support is unbelievable! You all managed to keep me motivated even in, well, TERRIBLE TIMES. I believe I made a lot of friends here, and that makes me very happy.  
> If you liked this story, I am so flattered! But if you hate it - I see where you're coming from.  
> You shall suffer no longer.
> 
> So huh..... Do you guys have twitter? Maybe let's follow each other? I'm @caladissima

I learned a number of things about Jason after that first date.

For one, he can be awfully self-unforgiving sometimes. He often needs a little counseling to back off from self-destruction and he has an undeniable death wish. On the other hand, Jason is incredibly kind, patient and playful. He's also the most clean and organized man that I've ever met in my entire life - and while I'm a much superior cook, he's not bad either. Jason knows how to bake bread and cookies, too, supposedly teached by _Alfred_.

I don't know how to bake bread, but he doesn't know how to bake cake, so I call it a perfect balance. 

Jason likes sex and he's damn good at it, but he's also very sweet and cuddly. He likes holding hands, temple kisses and being the little spoon sometimes. He likes books and plays and movies like Pride and Prejudice - Jason says that he's a "total Elizabeth", but I know that he's more of a Jane.

-So?

 _Ah_. Of course. Bruce Wayne is still waiting for an answer.

The man sitting in front of me wears a beautifully tailored grey suit going along with a nice blue tie. His hair, which I can see going gray on the sides, is styled neatly and I bet the black watch on his wrist is either expensive or the product of some vigilante bullshit I don't want to hear of. Probably both.

The only factor disrupting his seemingly perfect image is a split lip, which I can tell was cared after with lots of ice and some good concealer. And it's a good job: I probably wouldn't have noticed if we weren't sitting together for this long. The bat mask doesn't cover his lips, after all. Someone, somewhere, must have managed to hit the only helpless 6 inches of skin from his body. I wouldn't know, though - I stay away from these type of news as much as I can.

And as hard as I try, it's impossible not to marvel at the fact that the billionaire sitting with me was probably rolling in the dirt with some thugs a couple of hours ago. 

You see, the thing is... When I walked into this fancy, hipster coffee shop for a treat before work, I did not expect to run into Bruce Wayne. Like I did not expect him to ask me to sit for a "brief conversation" and I definitely did not expect him to ask me about "what I had seen in Jason".

We've been together for four fucking months. I just might have a very explanatory monologue about him, but I don't think I'm capable of sharing it.

-Jason _cares_ a lot more than what he shows. -It's what I decide to go with. A solid answer which is completely true, even though it's a little subjective.

It seems to be the right answer, in the end. Mr Bat looks pleased with my words, if the small smile on his lips was supposed to mean anything. Not that I care, of course.

-He can be a little complicated to get around.

The man tilts his head in a way that unlocks about a hundred memories on my mind. Jason, Damian - even the older brother, Dick, whom I only met once and was suited as Nightwing at the time. They all did this thing; they all had this expression, and as I see it in Bruce Wayne's face as well, I realize that it's because they're his sons. The reason why they have so many behaviours in common is because they were all raised by the same person. Some of Jason's bad habits come from him.

-Yeah, I don't know… It depends, I guess. You just need to figure out his tempo and roll from that. -I shrug, taking a sip from my cappuccino. -You learn a thing or two about psychology from teaching teenagers. Though I bet you learned enough from dealing with entitled rich men.

I realized, perhaps a bit too late, that Bruce Wayne was an entitled rich man himself. Born and raised knowing nothing but money and power - he might hold himself accountable, sure, but he's still part of the demographic. So I watch closely for an reaction; an indication that he took offense or noticed the innocent affront. There isn't one, though. Bruce laughs, his expression warm and actually pleased.

That's Batman. _Batman_ . This is _the_ Batman. The vigilante from the news. Batman, the dark and mysterious hero who took it as a personal duty to protect Gotham from itself after god gave up on the task. _That_ Batman. And here he is, having coffee with me, casually discussing my relationship with his son. I mean - I should have my mom go question Jason about _his_ intentions with me, not the other way around. He is the one emotionally unbalanced, after all.

-I believe you have better skills. -He salutes me with a small, ironic curtsy. -But however it is… Wayne Enterprises will be sixty five years old in a few days, so we're holding a celebration in the manor, next saturday. We would all appreciate it if you came.

 _Shit_ . Jason never told me about this - but again, there's only so much he tells me when it comes to the family. It happens mostly when he gets pissed off at one of them and wants to ramble, which I always appreciate. It's both funny and informative. He once went into a full hour rant about how Dick was a _"bored, intrusive motherfucker who kept digging into his life because he had nothing to do with his own"._ I laughed through the entire thing and he eventually laughed, too.

 _-Oh_. Ok... So, is it the long dress and high heels type of celebration or the jeans and t-shirt type of celebration? -I ask him, not sure of which one I dislike the most: big and impersonal or small and intimate.

-Hm. I'd say it's the first, although I wouldn't expect Jason to wear anything but jeans and a t-shirt. _Especially_ if I don't want him to.

There's some tiredness to his tone, which makes me smile at him. I know Jason: he can be maddening sometimes. Jason is, in fact, the most stubborn person that I have ever met in my entire life. Sometimes I'm sure that he does it on purpose. But what can we do?

-I'll see if I can get him in a dress shirt.

+

-And that's because you said it wouldn't take so lo...

-Shut up.

-You're a liar. Just admit it.

-Jason, I need to concentrate. Will you please stop?

I heard him shifting behind me, making the bed shake. The motion didn't stop until he got up, moving to sit on the chair in front of me and leaning in as if to inspect my face. I tried not to look at him and focused on the mirror I had in hands, watching my eyes closely. Holding my breath, I carefully moved the eyeliner pen to imitate the wing I had on my right eye.

It wasn't a perfect match, but it looked as good as it could possibly get.

Jason murmurs something about how _"it can't be that hard",_ but I ignore him, putting the pen down to get mascara.

-I'm almost done now. Just mascara and lipstick. -I roll my eyes at him, looking through my bag to pick the color I wanted. -For someone who didn't want to go, you're way too anxious to get there.

-The sooner we arrive, the sooner we get to leave. -He reasons, getting up again and leaning in, kissing my cheeks. -And you don't need so much makeup.

His comment was so sweet that I didn't complain about him probably messing with my highlighter.

I finished my makeup and slid into the black dress that I had worn during Diana Prince's exhibit, a whole lifetime ago. It still was the nicest thing that I had in my closet and black never gets old, anyway. It looked nice with my new earrings and the makeup was, dare I say, on point. I looked nice enough - Bruce Wayne's rich and fancy guests shouldn't be so intimidating then.

I tend to get cocky when I feel pretty.

Jason was waiting for me in the couch, scrolling through something on his phone. Though he had probably already seen me on his peripheral sight, I leaned into the wall to do a pose anyway. It was hard to tell if the hardest part was balancing myself in one foot with those heels or holding back a laugh, but I did my best to channel my inner femme fatale.

Jason puts his phone down, suddenly looking a little less bored. He sits straight, holding his hands in consideration, and then gives me a slow head-to-toe look that makes me feel a little hot for some reason. It probably has something to do with the expression on his face, but I don't allow myself to think about it for too long. _We still need to go out._

-Do we really have to go?

I never tell him that I was thinking about the very same thing - as my mom says, "god doesn't give wings to snakes". They'd be too powerful.

-The sooner we get there, the sooner we leave. -I shoot back at him, getting a laugh in response.

Jason comes to me as I ground myself with two feet, deciding to abandon the Jessica Rabbit persona in order to behave like a normal person. He was about to kiss me, I can tell, but something snaps on his mind that makes him back off with a confused expression.

-Can I kiss you with this lipstick?

Jason's concern is so adorable that it makes me laugh. I kiss him as an answer, too, and even though he gives in happily, I can tell that he's still wary of it.

-It's liquid lipstick. -Despite my answer, the frown on his face only deepens. I shake my head, flattening my hands on his chest to push him off. -It dries. Power stay. I can go to war and come back runway ready.

-Hm… That gives me some ideas… -He smirks at me, stepping back and getting the keys out of his pocket. -Now let's go.

-Oh, _no_ . Don't you dare think I'm getting in a motorcycle like _this_.

-Come on, I'm not _that_ stupid. I brought the car.

He _better_ have.

I don't go on many adventures past the Robert Kane memorial bridge, but I can tell that it is more busy tonight than the usual. It's weirdly bright, too. Usually the surroundings past the bridge are dark and creepy, but there are unusual light poles around the fields, strategically placed to light up the entire area for the guests driving in.

There was a line of cars slowly following a dirt road as we approached the property. Jason drove out of it, though. It was a little confusing at first, but then I realized that Jason probably knew his way around the dark woods just fine, along with a number of alternative paths. Out of the lit up road Wayne had set for his guests, the place was awfully dark and a little terrifying. Trees were towering over the car like they were about to fall on top of us, but judging by how easily we were moving through the woods, I assumed this was definitely a private road of theirs.

I recognize that it was a very practical shortcut, though I hated it. It didn't seem to bother Jason, though: he drove fast and reckless like always, as if he could see as clear as day. Or maybe it was muscle memory, I don't know.

I saw him reach for a control on the cup holder, which was probably supposed to open a door somewhere. We eventually got inside a tunnel, living the woods behind - I looked over my shoulder just in time to see a wall getting back up. The dark tunnel got brighter and brighter with every second, until we got to a place which was an unmistakable garage filled with an impressive number of expensive cars. 

After Jason parked, I noticed two guys talking to each other in front of us. One of them leaning into a black mercedes and the other one standing close with hands on his pockets. Squinting a little, I started to recognize the one standing up: Tim Drake. Damian's older brother who graduated high school almost two years ago. 

He looked bigger than what I remembered and his face was losing some of that boyish look. Boys grow up fast, after all. And the other one… Had to be Dick. I could remember the hair and the body shape from the last time we met: he was tall, lean and very well defined. Kind of a "Hollywood actor meets Cirque du Soleil" situation, it was hard to miss. The two of them looked at us after Jason killed the engine and I doubt we could escape an interaction.

-They're despicable, I know. -Jason says playfully, opening the door to get out. 

I leave the car before he gets any ideas to come open the door for me - I've never been good with taking this kind of chivalry.

-And the angels cry as Jason finally brings his girlfriend home. -Tim opens his arms theatrically, making the other one laugh. -How are you doing, miss Y/L/N?

-I not your teacher anymore, you can call me by my name. -I cringe a little, holding my hands and feeling a little awkward.

-Of course, miss Y/L/N. -Tim nodded with a smile. By the way his expression crashed, I assume he realized his mistake immediately.

-I'm Dick Grayson. -The taller one introduces himself before Tim can make a correction. Dick then extends his hand, which I shake almost nervously. -It's nice to finally meet you. I heard a lot about you.

-I heard a lot about you too.

-Really? -He looks at Jason with a knowing expression, smirking. -Only good things, I hope.

-Never once. -I smile at him, getting the reaction I wanted. 

They all laughed, though in reality, I was just aiming my shot at Jason. I love making him laugh.

-We should probably go up. -Tim points to the roof, looking up. -Dami is probably pissed that he's doing all the good-son duty alone.

They sigh collectively and start moving, Jason taking my hand in the process. _Good-son duty_ . They're all vigilantes, they all have secret identities and commit a number of crimes quite frequently - but they have to dress up nice and pretend they're nothing but the well behaved, _good_ rich kids Bruce Wayne raised. The facade I've seen the man himself pull before.

I hadn't realized how big the manor was until we started walking inside. There were doors and corridors and stairs - and a couple of locks that made me believe that Jason had gotten us inside through a door that no outsider knows off.

The more we walked, the louder things got. I could hear music, voices and noises of things like glass and metal. People started to appear; they were all well dressed. Dick and Tim wore blazers, but I don't think I could have possibly made Jason go that far. I got him to wear dress pants with a black button-up, though, and he looked fucking devine.

We stopped in what seemed to be a huge living room, altered to make more space and accommodate the guests. It had the kind of expensive design you only ever see in movies, with impersonal decoration and art pieces in display. It was packed with fancy looking people and waiters, walking around with champagne glasses.

The noise was annoying.

-This is the pocket edition. -Dick explains to me, looking around with a bored expression. -The actual birthday was two days ago: they had a party in the building with all the employees. This is the _intimate_ celebration.

The way he emphasized the word "intimate" made it clear that they all knew it wasn't intimate at all. More like the "exclusive PR" version, for all the rich folks of Gotham to come together and do whatever is it that they do. Business, look pretty… I don't know, commit crimes.

I've seen enough.

-Cassie wanted to meet you, but she doesn't do stuff like this. -Tim smiles at me, putting his hands back on his pockets. -Maybe another time.

 _Cassie_. I heard about her before, but I've never gotten a grasp of her thing, whatever it is.

Besides that, they all looked bored out of their minds. Jason didn't even try to hide the annoyance on his face. Dick, seemingly the most sociable of them, eventually left us to go rescue Damian from a group of people he called "the self-centered accountability guys". Tim was unwillingly whisked away by the man who currently runs his deceased parents' company and once we were "alone", Jason pulled me to the side so we could go stand by the balcony.

-Is it like this all the time? -I whisper to him, accepting the champagne glass he hands over to me. 

-It's worse when you're a kid and they pass you around like a trophy. -Jason shrugs, looking at the people in front of us skeptically. -I bet the brat is still having it rough.

-Well, speaking of your siblings… If you don't mind the question. -I propose, touching his chest with the champagne glass to get his attention. It works. _-Cassie?_

I can almost see the way Jason's brain works as he gives it a second of consideration. I don't know a lot about this Cassie person other than she is a girl and one of his siblings. I also have a guess that she is probably a vigilante too, though I can't be too sure about anything.

-Well, Cassie is Tim's age. It's a… Long story that probably isn't right for _this_. -He nods to the party, leaning more into the balcony. -But basically, she's mute. We have our own way of communication, but she doesn't do a lot of it, anyway. She doesn't like being around a lot of people either... I mean, in reality, none of us do. 

That explains a thing or two.

-I take it the "long story" involves _exactly_ what I'm thinking about. -I roll my eyes, looking back to the people.

Familiar faces came into view: Bruce Wayne and Diana Prince. They were talking to each other next to the stairs. Not surprisingly, she looked like some sort of deity - she also seemed concerned about something. Mr Bat, on the other hand, looked at her like he was seconds away from bowing down.

-I think your father has a crush on Diana Prince. 

-What?

-I said what I said.

-He doesn't have a…

I held his chin and turned his face to their direction. They were still talking. Bruce seemed to be soothing her about something. He also had a stupid puppy look on his face that I don't think Diana herself realized.

 _-Fuck off..._ -I felt his jaw moving against my hand.

-I told you. -I shrug, taking a sip of champagne. It tasted fantastic and probably way too expensive for me to buy on my own. -You can't blame him, though. She's six foot of excellence.

Jason didn't give any signs that he agreed with me, which I guess was flattering.

-Now they're looking at us.

-What?

-Oh, _great_. They're coming. -He groaned, shaking his head in denial.

I looked ahead again and spotted Bruce and Diana walking together, coming to our direction. Sometimes they would get lost in between the other people walking around, but I kept my eyes up, looking out and waiting. The last time I spoke to Diana Prince, I was being investigated for the theft of an artefact under her control - even though we had fixed everything surrounding that topic, I didn't feel like talking to her again. Or looking in her overall direction, out of shame.

Her silk red dress was even more impressive from up close. It matched her velvet red lips and those were definitely real emerald on her earrings. Not to sound like a dumbass, but Diana feels like the impersonation of a goddess, if one had come alive in human form.

-I must admit that I didn't believe it when you said you'd get him to dress up. -Bruce says, looking at Jason's clothes with a frown. -I should know better than to underestimate you.

-Y/N. It's great to see you here. -Diana cuts Bruce out of his wonder, reaching out and taking both my hands in hers. -And it's great that things have been solved.

She acts like "things" wasn't an awful event that made me miserable and messed with the order of everything that happened in my life. I put a smile on my face, anyways - this has nothing to do with her. Poor thing probably suffered wonders as well and unlike me, she's still in the dark about it.

-It's good. You look amazing, by the way. -I squeeze her hands and then let go of it. 

-She does. -Mr Bats nods and I try not to laugh at the way that Jason stiffened by my side. -And so do you, Y/N. I'm happy that you both decided to pass by. I know you're counting the seconds to leave.

That was directed at Jason. Bruce's expression was incredibly soft and I realized he was silently encouraging us to escape the party. The knowing smile on Jason's face told me that my suspicions were absolutely right. Diana stepped aside like she knew, too, and Jason took my hand to guide me out of the room, leaving them behind.

-This is not how we came in. -I point out for him, noticing the strange corridor.

-We're going to make a quick stop. -He smiles at me, guiding us through the manor. -And then out. 

I didn't question his plan - my feet had a couple more steps on those heels before they started to hurt. After a minute of walking around corridors, stairs and unseen rooms, we reached a wing of the manor which was much more silent and pretty much empty, aside from a couple of drunk exceptions. 

-Dick said you came but I didn't believe him.

It's a kitchen. Smaller and much more personal than everything else I had seen, with objects and colorful utensils lying around the counter. Damian was sitting in a stool, shoulders low and seemingly exhausted - there was also a half-eaten slice of chocolate cake in front of him. And he wasn't alone: there was another man standing close to the counter, much older, dressed impeccably in a three piece suit.

The man offered me a kind smile and Jason guided me forward with a hand on the low of my back.

-That's Alfred. I wanted you to meet him and… And to try on the extra cake he stashes for the pity parties. -Jason deflects under the man's gaze. -Where is it?

-Grey fridge, third shelf. -Alfred shakes his head, still smiling. -It's nice to meet you, miss Y/N. I've heard many stories about you; enough to believe we might end up being good friends.

-So you guys are telling stories about me? -I crossed my arms and look to Jason and Damian, whose faces get red almost immediately. -I hope I don't have a bad reputation.

-No at all, which is impressive. These boys aren't known to be smart or to find good company.

-Nah, now we're shifting or modus operandi to finding cool people and messing them up instead. -Jason muses, handing me a plate with the very same cake Damian seemed to be eating. -Gotta shake up the game to keep things fun.

Both sentences made Damian laugh and I noted that it pleased both Jason and Alfred. And me, too.

We didn't leave so soon. The cake was absurdly good and Damian wanted an excuse in case anyone started looking for him, so we sat by the counter and started to talk. He would be sixteen soon and was going for his third year already. Jason innocently asked about what he was going to do when high school was over and I held my breath, trying not to seem like I was too curious for the answer.

-I'm trying to figure out how to tell father that I want to go to art school. -He shrugged, looking down to his empty plate.

The way Jason's relaxed expression turned into pure shock was hilarious, but I didn't laugh at him. I feel like it would disrupt their moment - Damian's outflow and Jason's discovery.

 _-Art school_. -Jason repeated as if he was hearing those words for the first time in his entire life.

-Huh….Yeah. -The boy shrugs again and it's almost like his folding into himself.

-What do you want to _do_ in art school?

-I want to… You know, I can… I mean, I like… Huh… -Damian trips over his words like he just heard them for the first time too. We both let him take his time, even though unlike Jason, I already know his answer. -I like to… Draw stuff. Paint. Stuff. Sometimes I build… Stuff. But, like… For, huh… You know. Art.

It physically hurts to watch him speak, but he eventually finds his way around.

Jason still looks astonished. Damian looks like he's about to die.

-That's… I didn't know you were into this kind of thing. -It's the first thing he says after many seconds of painful silence. And then. -It's awesome. Don't worry about Bruce. He's gonna like it too.

That slipped a little more life into the boy. Before we walked away, I gave him a hug and got to say _"I told you",_ which earned me a laugh from him. The last time I saw Damian during that night, he looked actually happy.

I think Jason probably noticed that too.

-So. We did eat cake, but I'm hungry. -Jason murmurs when we leave the woods. -What do you say we stop somewhere?

-Yes. Pizza?

He takes his eyes off the road for a moment, analyzing my body with a skeptical expression.

-Dressed like _this?_

-What? Come on, it's _Gotham_. They won't bat an eye to our direction twice.

Jason had a smart comment about how the street rats were going to get tangled in my dress, but I knew that I had a victorious case. I knew that he could drive me to eat fries in the Crime Alley if I asked (though I don't see how on earth that scenario could possibly come together).

We took our pizza home.

Jason handled the wine while I took off my shoes and my earrings (they were starting to get heavy). It was a functioning support system.

-This is the nicest Diana Prince has ever been to me. -Jason reflected out loud after a long sip of wine.

-She doesn't like you?

I manage to stop myself from completing the question with _"Diana? The sweetest woman in the world? The goddess? She, who never wronged anyone, ever?"_

-Not a lot of people like me. -He laughs, sitting down in the stool in front of me. 

-What do you mean?

-Well, I'm not exactly _easy_ to like. That's why they're all marvelling at you. -Jason says, opening the box and serving my plate with a slice of pizza. -And miss Diana Prince hates my guts. _Reasonably_.

-But _why?_

Jason looks at me in a way that I hadn't seen in a very long time. That annoyed expression like he thought it was funny that I didn't know something - back when we had met each other.

 _-Come on_. Really?

-What?

 _-Really?_ Red, blue and gold? -He puts his arms on his waist, making a pose, and it pisses me off that I still have no idea of what he's talking about. -Nothing?! _Wow!_ It's… Huh… It's a _wonder_ you haven't figured this one out.

It honestly takes me a couple of seconds to understand.

 _-No_.

-There you go. 

_-No_. You're telling me that D…

I cut myself short because the ground shakes. Well, in reality, we heard the noise before that impact could be felt under our feet. Jason and I move to the living room immediately and checking through the window, a large body of fire burning across the city confirms my suspicions.

An explosion.

-And what the hell is that? -I whisper, reaching out to touch his shoulder.

I can see Jason opening his mouth to speak, but he is cut off too. His phone starts to ring from his pocket - and it reads "Dick" on the ID when he takes it out to check. He doesn't answer immediately, even though the sound seems echo in the whole apartment (and it feels _loud_ ). The expression I see on his face is severe. Or confused, maybe. It doesn't take me too long to figure out that he is still _considering_.

It's not my favorite thing in the world, but I put an assuring smile on my face and squeeze his shoulder.

-Come on, Red Hood. Get to work.

My heart breaks a little to watch him go. It always does. This time around, though, is more about preoccupation and less about the empty spot he left behind - or the fact that I know he's probably not coming back tonight. I learned my way around these things: I learned my way around him. It's never easy or nice, but I know where to stand.

Nowadays I know that Jason Todd and Red Hood aren't different people. He's just one man, wearing different clothes under two names. I can feel him walking further and further away from the red helmet with every breath, but he's still that man.

I shouldn't wait for him, but I know that I won't be able to sleep for a while. So I go to the kitchen to take a bite of pizza and put the rest of it away - it's when I notice my phone on the counter.

The sight gives me an idea.

The phone feels too light in my hands when I take it and my fingertips are numb when I dial the numbers.

_"-Hey. Hey… Yeah, I know. I'm sorry, I know I should have called. So, huh… Mom? I need to tell you a story."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Hm. Goodbye? :(


End file.
